DE  VALUERE 


OPALS 
FROM  A  MEXICAN  MINE 


OPALS 


FROM    A    MEXICAN    MINE 


BY 


GEORGE    DE   VALLIERE 


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Copyright,   1896 

by 

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"  Now,  opals  are  the  tears  shed  by  Tonatiuh,  the  Sun  God, 
many  ages  ago,  and  which  fell  upon  the  earth  and  have  lodged 
in  its  bosom,  turning  into  jewels.  It  was  prophesied  by  our 
forefathers  that  men  would  labor  wearily  for  them  and  kings 
would  pay  great  price  of  gold  therefor.  Hence  it  is  well  to 
know  the  virtues  and  portents  of  these  stones,  and  may  wise 
men  ponder  deeply  upon  what  I,  Chimapopotl,  a  descendant  of 
the  high  priest,  will  say.  Now,  some  [of these  stones]  are  white, 
though  veined  with  red  when  held  to  the  light,  and  these  portend 
love  and  death  .  .  .  and  there  are  some  that  shimmer  with 
the  blue  of  Heaven,  and  these  speak  of  love  .  .  .  passion 
rings  loud  in  those  that  are  of  the  hue  of  gold.  .  .  .  If  a 
man  take  into  his  hand  one  that  is  yellow  changing  into  cloud- 
like  gray,  and  sleep,  he  will  have  strange  dreams  .  .  .  and 
it  is  also  true  that  one  may  find  a  handful  of  divers  hues  which 
may  mean  anything  or  nothing,  as  one  will." — Extract  from 
an  ancient  Nahuatl  manuscript  in  Queretaro, 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Greatest  of  the  Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  .  .  .  9 
The  Water  Lady  ....'.  49 

The  Mysterious  Disappearance  of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  97 
The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on  the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  141 
Cosmopolitana  Mexicana  .  .  .  .  .  .167 


The  Greatest  of  the  Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl 


And  some  are  white,  though  veined 
with  red  when  held  to  the  light, 
and  these  portend  love  and  death." 


The  Greatest 

of  the 

Gods 

is 

Quetzalcoatl 

^PEZCOMAYA  is  builded  in  the  hollow  of  a 
plain,  wherein  it  differs  not  from  most 
towns  in  the  Republic  of  Mexico.  All  about  this 
plain  the  Sierra  strikes  its  purple  teeth  into  the 
sky  of  everlasting  blue,  these  deepening  into 
black  when  they  meet  the  stars  at  nightfall.  Far 
to  the  east  lies  the  valley  plain  of  Anahuac,  and 
to  the  west  the  mountains  slope  down  to  the  sea 
till  the  sands  are  washed  by  the  lazy  surges  of 
the  Pacific. 

A  cluster  of  adobe  houses  huddled  around  a 
dusty  plazuela,  and  then  straggling  out  into  a 
single  street  that  ends  in  brushwood  huts,  and 


12  The  Greatest  of  the 

finally  sprawls  into  the  desert ;  here  and  there  a 
tree  that  sulks  and  is  ashamed  ;  a  small  church 
with  galleried  campanile,  wherein  hang  bells  that 
softly  ring  the  hours  of  sleep  and  prayer  ;  dust, 
dogs,  and  donkeys — such  is  Tezcomaya. 

The  people  toil  not,  nor  spin,  nor  are  they 
well  clothed.  Meekly  they  bear  the  burden  of 
life,  aided  thereto  by  a  long  draught  of  mezcal 
now  and  then,  whereupon  they  sleep,  and  per 
haps  dream.  A  league  away  is  a  hole  in  the 
ground,  a  mine  denounced  and  mastered  by 
men  from  the  North,  and  here  some  of  the  na 
tives  move  with  pretence  of  labor,  though  still 
dreaming. 

One  October  day,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1892,  Tonatiuh  rose,  as  he  had  done  since  the  last 
universal  cataclysm,  in  a  sky  of  unflecked  blue, 
seemingly  indifferent  that  he  was  not  met,  as  of 
yore,  with  greeting  songs  and  garlanded  dance. 
Well  here,  as  elsewhere,  had  the  cowled  head 
done  its  work,  and  only  the  surpliced  priest  in 
the  adobe  church  bowed  and  genuflexed  before 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  13 

images  of  gaudy  hue,  all  of  which  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  old  god. 

Just  as  the  bright  beams  tipped  the  eastern 
Sierra,  a  girl  darted  out  from  one  of  the  adobe 
houses,  passed  the  door  of  the  church  without 
even  the  sign  of  the  cross,  despite  the  tinkling  of 
the  bell  within,  and  hurried  away  to  the  north. 
She  was  clothed  in  a  plain  sleeveless  garment  of 
cotton  cloth,  and  her  face,  all  but  her  dark  eyes, 
was  hidden  under  a  heavy  rebozo  of  black  thread, 
whose  fine  and  delicate  weft  cost  many  a  day  of 
ceaseless  toil,  and  stamped  the  wearer  as  wealthier 
than  her  fellows. 

The  girl's  bare  feet  left  a  clear  imprint  upon  the 
soft  white  dust  of  the  plazuela  and  of  the  street 
as  she  sped  swiftly  along,  past  the  last  strag 
gling  huts  of  Tezcomaya,  and  out  upon  the 
smooth  cactus-flecked  plain  that  levelled  away  to 
the  foot  of  the  Sierra  rising  like  a  boundary  wall 
a  good  six  leagues  away.  Mile  after  mile  she 
passed  at  a  seemingly  tireless  gait  that  was  more 
a  run  than  a  walk,  though  her  throat  and  nos- 


14  The  Greatest  of  the 

trils  were  parched  and  choked  with  the  fine 
powder  of  the  desert,  and  her  feet  torn  to 
bleeding  by  the  spines  of  the  cactus. 

The  earth  glowed  like  a  furnace  under  the 
fierce  heat  of  the  sun,  and  the  girl  panted  like  a 
hunted  deer,  her  dry  tongue  licking  her  lips,  but 
never  once  did  she  relax  her  speed.  Soon  the 
Sierra  grew  more  distinct,  its  buttresses,  battle 
ments,  towers,  and  ravines  marked  themselves 
out  of  the  purple  mist.  Not  a  tree  nor  a  bush 
grew  upon  the  shrivelled  slopes,  not  a  bird  hov 
ered  in  the  air  above  ;  it  was  the  desolation  of 
heat,  not  death,  for  here  life  had  never  been. 
Columns  of  dust  marched  like  giant  spectres 
across  the  plain  which  swept  off  here  and  there 
into  mirage  lakes  that  shimmered  with  light. 

Straight  toward  the  wall  of  rock  the  girl  ran, 
as  if  to  hurl  herself  against  it;  but  when  she  could 
almost  touch  it  with  her  hand,  there  appeared  a 
narrow  cleft,  and  into  this  she  entered.  Here  she 
was  in  the  cool  shadow,  for  this  was  the  domain 
of  Mictlantecutli,  into  which  Tonatiuh  could  never 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  15 

come.  Scarce  was  she  within  when  she  sat,  or 
rather  fell,  upon  the  rocky  floor  and  bowed  down 
until  her  forehead  touched  the  cold  stone,  her 
breath  coming  quick  and  short,  her  limbs  trem 
bling.  Thus  she  remained  for  some  moments 
until  the  heaving  of  her  full  rounded  breasts  grew 
less  rapid,  and  then,  as  if  with  new  strength,  she 
leapt  to  her  feet  and  pursued  her  way  through 
the  narrow  gorge,  now  climbing  over  huge 
boulders  that  blocked  the  path,  now  leaping 
across  black  holes  that  yawned  beneath  her  feet, 
yet  always  surely,  as  one  who  knows  the  way 
well,  difficult  though  it  is. 

As  she  advanced,  the  walls  of  the  gorge  leaned 
together  and  met  above,  shutting  out  the  light  of 
day.  She  plunged  fearlessly  on,  though  with 
slower  step,  for  in  the  thick  darkness  hands  took 
the  place  of  eyes,  reaching  and  feeling  for  the 
sides  of  the  narrow  tunnel.  Her  foot  touched 
something  soft  and  cold,  and  she  drew  it  up 
quickly  with  a  low  cry.  She  stood  motionless 
as  an  image  of  stone,  and  called  with  half-voice  : 


1 6  The  Greatest  of  the 

"  Nantli  Colotl ! " 

She  craned  her  neck,  listening.  Her  voice 
seemed  to  travel  a  long  way  and  then  come 
back  to  her  in  a  faint  echo  :  "Colotl."  Again 
she  called,  this  time  loudly,  straining  her  throat 
to  its  utmost  of  sound  :  "Nantli  Colotl  !"  An 
other  sound  now  thrilled  to  her  in  the  blackness  : 
"Nelli,  nelli,  teichpoch  !" 

The  girl  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  an 
swered  in  the  Nahuatl  tongue  :  ''Yes,  it  is  I, 
your  daughter,  Xicaltetecon.  I  wish  to  see  you 
quickly,  but  dare  not  come  farther,  for  the  way  is 
full  of  your  children,  the  cohuatl." 

A  low  soft  hiss  breathed  down  the  tunnel,  and 
the  girl  could  feel,  rather  than  hear,  the  gliding  of 
the  sinuous  bodies  of  the  snakes  on  the  rocky 
floor,  as  they  answered  the  call  of  their  mistress. 
She  stepped  forward  slowly,  putting  her  foot 
down  with  care,  lest  it  touch  one  of  the  reptiles 
whom  she  knew  were  moving  on  ahead  of  her. 
She  went  but  a  short  distance,  and  then,  turning 
sharply  to  the  left,  emerged  from  the  narrow  way 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  17 

into  a  great  cavern  which  was  brilliant  with  the 
flames  of  a  fire  that  leapt  and  curled  upon  a  huge 
stone  altar.  Near  this,  her  hand  resting  upon  it, 
stood  a  tall  bronzed  woman,  clad  only  in  a  sash 
of  bright  yellow  wrapt  closely  about  her  hips  and 
knotted  in  front.  She  was  not  old,  for  not  a 
single  wrinkle  marred  her  regular  features,  and 
her  dark  eyes  glowed  with  strength  and  passion  ; 
nor  young,  for  her  face  had  something  of  the 
majesty  that  comes  from  knowledge  born  of 
long  experience.  On  her  wrists  and  ankles  were 
heavy  bands  of  gold,  and  strips  of  the  same 
metal  glittered,  interwoven,  in  the  long  hair  that 
fell  to  her  knees,  covering  her  as  with  a  mantle 
of  jet.  About  her  neck  was  a  thin  chain  of  silver 
that  held  suspended  between  her  breasts  a  golden 
image  of  the  sun,  the  centre  and  rays  of  which 
seemed  to  glow  with  a  light  of  their  own. 

Such  was  Nantli  Colotl  (Mother  Scorpion),  the 
far  famed  Bruja  de  los  Montes,  or  witch  of  the 
mountains,  in  whose  existence  the  Spaniard 
denied  a  belief,  though  he  spoke  of  her  reluc- 


1 8  The  Greatest  of  the 

tantly  and  with  some  fear  beneath.  They — 
the  immaterial  and  undefmable  "they" — said 
that  there  lived  in  the  Sierra  a  priestess  of  the  old 
cult,  and  that  some  of  the  Indios  went  thither  to 
worship ;  but  the  padre,  a  stern  man,  proclaimed 
this  a  lie  of  Satan  himself,  and  dangerous  to  the 
soul's  future  even  to  think  about.  Xicaltetecon 
walked  up  to  the  priestess,  and,  holding  out  her 
hands  appealingly,  fell  upon  her  knees. 

"Well,  girl,"  said  the  woman,  looking  coldly 
at  the  form  at  her  feet,  "'tis  a  long  time  since 
thy  butterfly  wings  have  brought  thee  hither, 
and  I  think  thou  wouldst  never  have  come  again 
had  not " 

"Pity,  Nantli  Colotl  !"  pleaded  the  girl  in  the 
soft  Nahuatl  tongue  ;  "  I  will  tell  thee " 

"Tell  me!"  exclaimed  the  priestess  scornfully, 
"thou  wilt  tell  me  something  !  Nay,  I  will  tell 
thee  what  thou  earnest  for.  Thy  lover,  the 
golden-haired  stranger  from  the  North,  lies  ill, 
ill  of  the  fever  that  the  Spaniard  cannot  cure,  the 
curse  of  Mictlantecutli,  and  on  the  seventh  day 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  19 

he  will  die,  and  thou  wouldst  beg  me  to  save 
him.  Do  I  speak  the  truth  of  Quetzalcoatl  ?" 

The  breasts  of  the  girl  heaved  quickly  and  her 
voice  quivered  with  pain.  "Yes,  Nantli,  it  is 
true.  Thou  knowest  all  things.  Thou  wilt 
save  him,  save  him,  Nantli,  for  my  father's 
sake  ! " 

"Thou  darest  mention  thy  father's  name!" 
exclaimed  the  priestess  angrily;  "  what  hast  thou 
in  common  with  him  ?  He  served  our  god  here 
till  the  Spanish  priest  caused  him  to  be  thrown 
into  a  dungeon,  where  he  died.  Thou  didst  flit 
away  to  live  with  the  Spaniards,  and  almost  hast 
thou  gone  into  their  church  and  bowed  down  to 
their  maquechitli  (dolls),  and  thou  speakest  their 
tongue  as  glibly  as  if  thou  wert  a  chattering 
monototl  (parrot)  thyself." 

"Nay,  nay,  Nantli,"  sobbed  the  girl  ;  "never 
have  I  been  false  to  my  father's  teachings  ;  never 
have  I  entered  the  door  of  the  house  of  the  sing 
ing  priest,  nor  bowed  to  the  velvet-robed  virgin. 
My  lover  is  not  one  of  the  Spaniards  whom  thou 


20  The  Greatest  of  the 

hatest.  Thou  wilt  save  him,  Nantli  ?  1  will  die 
if  he  die  !" 

"Ca,  ca.  Thou  speakest  of  dying  like  a 
Spaniard,  as  if  it  were  some  great  thing."  The 
priestess  stopped  and  placed  both  of  her  hands 
over  her  eyes.  After  a  moment's  pause  she  con 
tinued  in  a  low  and  hesitating  voice,  as  of  one 
speaking  with  great  difficulty,  "Yes,  I  see  thee 
dead,  and  thy  lover  with  the  gold  hair  standing 
with  a  foot  upon  thy  grave.  It  is  so  written." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet,  and  with  the  fringe 
of  her  rebozo  wiped  away  the  tears  that  stained 
her  brown  cheeks. 

"Then  let  it  be  so,  Nantli.  If  thou  dost  wish 
my  life  for  his  it  is  thine.  It  was  not  death  I 
feared,  but  leaving  him." 

"I  have  naught  to  do  with  thy  life,  Xicaltete- 
con,"  said  the  priestess,  taking  down  her  hands 
and  seeming  to  recover  herself.  "  That  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  dark  forms  who  stand  behind  Quet- 
zalcoatl,  and  whose  messenger  he  is.  I  told  thee 
what  I  saw,  nothing  more." 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  21 

"  A  prophecy  ?  "  murmured  the  girl.  "  Those 
of  our  people  have  not  always  come  true.  My 
father  taught  me  to  read  the  signs  upon  those 
walls,"  and  she  pointed  with  her  finger  to  some 
hieroglyphics  that  were  deeply  cut  upon  one  of 
the  sides  of  the  cavern.  "  That  says,  and  it  was 
so  spoken  by  Guatemozin,  that  at  this  time  our 
people  shall  again  rule  the  land.  Yet  it  is  not 
so  ! w 

The  priestess  looked  at  Xicaltetecon  with  an 
expression  of  contempt.  "'.Thou  art  but  half 
learned  in  our  mysteries,  and  of  facts  thou 
knowest  no  more  than  thy  namesake  which 
flits  from  flower  to  flower.  Dost  thou  not  know 
that  he  whose  throne  is  in  the  ancient  city,  and 
who  rules  with  iron  hand  to-day  our  land  from 
the  river  of  the  North  to  where  the  oceans  eat 
into  the  earth  until  they  are  but  a  span  apart,  is 
one  of  our  own  people,  with  not  a  drop  of  Span 
ish  blood  in  his  veins  ?  Does  not  Diaz  descend 
straight  from  our  prince  Guatemozin,  and  is  not 
the  prophecy  thus  fulfilled  ?  " 


22  The  Greatest  of  the 

The  girl  bowed  her  head.  "Thou  art  right. 
Speak,  I  will  do  whatsoever  thou  tellest  me." 

For  a  while  the  priestess  did  not  answer.  The 
light  upon  the  great  stone  table  had  grown  dim. 
Nantli  Colotl  picked  up  from  the  floor  what 
appeared  to  be  a  piece  of  yellow  stone  and  threw 
it  upon  the  smoldering  fire.  It  crackled  fiercely, 
and  long  curling  tongues  of  flame  shot  up  that 
illumined  the  farthest  recesses  of  the  cavern.  At 
this  something  upon  the  altar  moved — something 
that  looked  at  firsk  like  a  heap  of  feathers — and 
coiled  itself  into  a  snake,  lifting  its  head  and  dart 
ing  out  its  forked  tongue  toward  the  priestess. 

"Down,  Mitzli  !"  she  commanded  ;  and  then 
turning  to  the  girl,  who  had  shrunk  back  at  the 
sight  of  the  feathered  monster,  "Why  art  thou 
afraid  of  Mitzli  ?  It  is  through  him  that  Quetzal- 
coatl  speaks,  the  greatest  of  all  the  gods,  he  who 
taught  our  people  and  guides  them  to-day,  if 
they  would  but  listen  !  "  As  she  reverently 
spoke  the  name  of  the  mysterious  god  she 
pointed  to  a  face  sculptured  in  the  rock  on  one 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  23 

side  of  the  cavern — the  sad,  pleading  face  of  a 
man,  wise  in  the  wisdom  that  is  born  of  suffer 
ing  ;  the  same  face  that  struck  awe  to  the  heart 
of  the  invading,  Christ-worshipping  Spaniard 
when  he  found  it  upon  the  ruins  of  ancient  tem 
ples,  so  like  was  it  to  that  of  his  own  thorn- 
filleted  God. 

The  priestess  dropped  her  hand  to  her  side  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  deep  thought  ;  then,  a 
cruel  light  flashing  in  her  eyes,  she  looked  at  the 
girl,  who  stood  with  clasped  hands,  mutely 
awaiting  the  decision. 

"  I  am  not  all  powerful,  Xicaltetecon,  that  thou 
knowest.  This  much  can  I  do  for  thee  if  thou 
wilt  obey  me,  no  more.  Swear  by  the  face  of 
Quetzalcoatl,  by  thy  father's  spirit  which  now 
stands  beside  thee,  that  thou  wilt  obey  me  if  I 
cure  thy  lover,  no  matter  what  it  is  I  ask." 

"I  swear  it  !"  cried  the  girl,  holding  out  her 
hands  to  the  sculptured  face  that  looked  pity 
ingly  down  upon  her. 

"Good!      Now    listen.      To-night,    ere    the 


24  The  Greatest  of  the 

moon  rise,  I  will  come  to  the  choza  where  thou 
livest  with  thy  lover,  and  I  will  apply  to  him  the 
cure  known  to  us.  If  at  the  end  of  three  hours 
the  fever  die  out  and  he  be  as  those  are  who  get 
well,  thou  shalt  leave  him  and  go  to  the  choza  of 
Jose,  the  arriero,  who  is  one  of  us,  and  who  has 
loved  thee  long  and  faithfully,  and  thou  shalst 
live  with  him." 

The  girl  staggered  back  and  the  muscles  of  her 
face  contracted.  "  Never !  Death  if  thou  wilst, — 
I  agree  to  that — but  not  life  with  Jose  while  my 
lover  lives  !  Never,  never  ! "  The  last  word 
was  a  moan  ending  in  a  sob. 

The  priestess  shrugged  her  shoulders  impa 
tiently.  "I  have  said  it.  Only  upon  that  con 
dition  will  I  save  the  man  from  the  North.  You 
may  choose." 

With  a  cry  of  agony  the  girl  fell  upon  her 
knees  and  again  held  out  her  hands  imploringly 
to  the  sorrowful  god. 

"Help!"  she  cried  ;  ' ' Quetzalcoatl  !  Spirit  of 
my  father,  help  !  " 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  25 

As  the  last  word  was  spoken  there  seemed  to 
come  whisperings  as  if  from  the  walls,  and  a  low 
moan  shuddered  through  the  cavern  and  died 
away.  There  was  the  sound  as  of  the  light 
treading  of  many  feet  upon  the  stone  floor,  but 
Xicaltetecon  could  see  nothing,  only  a  great 
tremor  shook  her  from  head  to  foot,  pricking  her 
as  with  needles  lightly  touched  upon  the  skin. 
The  feathered  snake  writhed  as  if  it  had  been 
impaled,  and  the  flames  that  arose  from  the 
burning  stone  shot  horizontally  along  the  surface 
of  the  altar,  hissing  as  if  a  strong  wind  had 
blown  upon  them.  Purple  lights  flashed  in  the 
shadowy  dome  above,  like  the  gleams  of  swing 
ing  scimeters,  and  for  an  instant  the  earth  rocked 
beneath  the  feet  of  the  priestess  and  her  victim. 
Gradually  the  sounds  died  away,  the  snake  grew 
motionless  and  coiled  again  into  a  bunch  of 
feathers.  All  was  as  it  had  been  before  the  cry 
of  the  girl  stirred  the  shadowy  things  that  are 
behind  the  veil. 

The  expression  of  surprise,  not  unmingled  with 


26  The  Greatest  of  the 

fear,  which  had  shown  itself  upon  the  face  of  the 
priestess  at  the  first  manifestation  of  the  powers 
she  served,  now  gave  place  to  one  of  triumph. 

* '  As  I  thought !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  ' '  it  is  written, 
and  they  could  not  change  it  if  they  would." 

The  girl  made  a  last  effort  to  bend  her  foe. 
She  looked  fixedly  at  the  priestess,  her  eyes 
flashing  with  magnetic  force. 

"Listen,  Nantli,"  she  said  ;  "if  I  cannot  change 
the  fates,  thou  canst,  for  this  thing  of  Jose,  the 
arriero,  is  thy  will,  not  theirs.  Give  me  a  little 
time  with  my  lover  after  he  is  cured,  to  see  once 
more  the  love-light  in  his  eyes,  to  feel  once  more 
his  kisses  upon  my  lips,  to  bid  him  farewell 
when  he  can  know  me ;  for  now  the  fever  has 
changed  his  soul  and  he  knows  nothing.  Only 
a  month,  Nantli — a  week — a  few  little  days  !  " 

Again  the  priestess  shook  her  head  and  the  evil 
light  flashed  in  her  sensuous  eyes. 

"It  is  useless,  Xicaltetecon.  If  I  sell,  thou 
must  pay  the  price  I  demand.  But  decide 
quickly,"  she  added,  with  an  impatient  stamp 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  27 

of  her  foot  that  made  the  golden  anklets  ring. 
"At  the  falling  of  the  sun  some  come  here  to 
worship  ;  the  way  is  far  from  here  to  Tezcomaya, 
and  there  is  much  to  do  for  this  thing." 

The  girl  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast  and 
bowed  her  head  with  the  fatalism  inherited  from 
her  forefathers,  who  had  mounted  with  firm  step 
the  teocalli  and  given  their  hearts  to  the  sun-god. 

"\  will  do  as  thou  wishest,"  she  said,  in  a 
quiet,  firm  voice. 

The  priestess  fixed  her  eyes  upon  those  of 
Xicaltetecon.  "Thou  art  weary,"  she  said; 
"thou  must  rest  ere  thou  goest  back,  or  thou 
wilt  fall  by  the  wayside.  Sleep  !  " 

The  sharp  command  caused  the  girl  to  start, 
but  she  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  those  of  the 
priestess,  which  had  become  two  centres  of  circles 
of  flowing,  dazzling  light.  The  lids  of  Xicaltetecon 
closed,  and  she  would  have  fallen  had  not  her 
companion  caught  her.  Nantli  Colotl  bore  the 
limp  body  across  the  cavern  and  laid  it  upon  a 
heap  of  jaguar  skins. 


28  The  Greatest  of  the 

She  stood  over  the  girl  for  a  moment,  contem 
plating  the  exquisite  Madonna-like  face  which  in 
the  hypnotic  slumber  looked  drawn  and  infinitely 
sad.  She  bent  down  and  put  her  fingers  upon 
the  sleeper's  forehead.  "Dream,"  she  com 
manded  ;  "  dream  of  thy  lover !  "  The  muscles 
of  the  girl's  face  relaxed  into  a  smile,  her  breath 
ing  became  almost  imperceptible. 

The  priestess  now  turned  to  the  stone  altar  and 
took  from  beneath  it  a  jar  of  baked  clay  with  nar 
row  curved  neck.  Into  this  she  poured  liquid 
from  another  jar  and  pushed  in  a  handful  of  dried 
leaves  and  some  white  powder.  She  placed  the 
vessel  upon  the  flames  and  stood  watching  it 
until  a  light  cloud  of  steam  curled  up  from  it. 
She  then  removed  the  jar,  and,  holding  it  by  the 
neck,  whirled  it  rapidly  around  at  arm's  length 
that  it  might  cool  more  quickly.  Replacing  it 
upon  the  altar,  beside  the  sleeping  snake,  she 
began  a  low  droning  chant  in  the  Nahuatl,  the 
original  Aztec  tongue,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
which  she  swayed  her  lithe  body  to  and  fro  in 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  29 

the  graceful  rhythmic  movements  of  a  sensual 
dance,  the  one  used  of  old  when  the  sun  was  a 
passion  god  and  the  earth  heaved  toward  him. 

"Quetzalcoatl,  Teuhtli,  ca  mochipa,  ca  nican 
nica.  Te  ticuati  in  notlanequiliz  in  motechcopa  ! 
Macame  ximomamatl  in  nohuicpa.  Nictlazoca- 
mati  ca  nicuipcayotiz  in  cenca  qualli  nohuicpa 
oticchiuh.  Cuix  cualli."1 

As  the  chant  proceeded,  the  snake  lifted  its  flat, 
triangular  head,  fixing  its  ruby  eyes  upon  the 
woman,  and  then  began  to  wave  its  head  and 
the  upper  part  of  its  body  in  exact  imitation  of 
her  movements.  It  rose  higher  and  higher  until 
it  stood  upon  a  single  coil  of  its  tail,  and  when 
the  dance  ended,  it  stopped  suddenly  and  re 
mained  as  motionless  as  if  carved  in  stone  upon 
the  walls  of  Xochicalco. 

Slowly,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  those  of  the  mon 
ster,  the  priestess  approached  until  she  was 


1  "  Quetzalcoatl,  always  Lord,  1  am  here.  Thou  knowest  the 
worship  I  have  for  thee.  Be  not  loth  to  give  me  what  I  ask. 
Thanks  do  I  render,  and  I  will  compensate  thee  for  the  good 
thou  hast  done  to  me.  It  is  good. " 


30  The  Greatest  of  the 

within  arm's  reach  of  it,  and  then,  with  a  move 
ment  swifter  than  the  eye  could  follow,  seized  it 
by  the  neck  and  thrust  its  head  into  the  mouth  of 
the  jar.  The  snake  twisted  and  writhed  in  fury, 
but  the  woman  held  firm  for  a  few  minutes, 
after  which  she  released  the  snake  and  stepped 
quickly  back,  drawing  away  the  jar. 

"There,  there,  Mitzli,"  she  murmured  caress 
ingly,  "thou  hast  given  me  enough  of  thy 
venom.  Tlein  tiquelehuia,  nehuatl  mitzhualhui- 
quiliz,  etzli  acuetzapalin  necuayotl. "  ("  What  wilt 
thou  ?  I  will  bring  it,  lizard's  blood  and  hydro- 
mel.")  She  put  before  the  reptile  a  bowl  into 
which  it  plunged  its  head  greedily. 

There  was  more  of  practical  chemistry  than 
magic  in  the  priestess's  preparation  for  the  cure  of 
the  man  who  was  dying  of  the  fever.  She  tasted 
the  mixture,  and,  seeming  to  find  it  good,  put  the 
jar  aside  and  went  over  to  where  Xicaltetecon 
lay  sleeping  upon  the  jaguar  skins.  She  leaned 
over  and  put  her  lips  close  to  the  girl's  breast. 

"When  the  bells  in  the  Spanish  priest's  tower 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  31 

strike  three  thou  must  go  to  the  hut  of  Jose,  the 
arriero.  Now  wake  ! " 

At  the  last  word  she  breathed  upon  the 
sleeper's  eyelids.  Xicaltetecon  moved,  drew  up 
her  arms,  and  opened  her  dark  eyes. 

"Have  I  slept  long?"  she  exclaimed,  spring 
ing  to  her  feet. 

"Barely  a  half  hour.  The  sun  is  not  long 
upon  the  downward  path.  Drink  from  this 
cup." 

The  girl  obeyed,  taking  a  long  draft  of  the 
sweet  but  powerful  necuayotl,  distilled  from  the 
honey  of  wild  bees  in  the  forests  of  the  tierra 
caliente. 

"To-night,  then,  when  the  moon  rises,  thou 
wilt  come  and  bring  the  secret  medicine  ? "  asked 
Xicaltetecon,  handing  back  the  cup. 

"Nantli  Colotl  never  failed  to  keep  her  prom 
ise,"  said  the  priestess,  haughtily,  "whether  it 
were  given  for  weal  or  woe.  Let  others  look  to 
theirs.  Fare  thee  well,  Xicaltetecon,  and  bear  in 
mind  to  speak  my  name  if  thou  meetest  others 


32  The  Greatest  of  the 

coming  here  to  worship,  lest  they  kill  thee  as  a 
spy." 

"Nelli,  nelli"  ("It  is  well"),  replied  the  girl, 
and  turning,  she  hurried  from  the  cave,  threading 
cautiously  but  swiftly  the  dark  passage,  and 
was  soon  out  upon  the  plain,  under  the  hot 
rays  of  the  sun. 

The  single-storied  adobe  house  that  had  for 
merly  belonged  to  the  father  of  Xicaltetecon, 
known  in  Tezcomaya  as  Pedro  Gutierrez,  stood 
at  the  head  of  the  street  which,  together  with 
the  plazuela,  formed  the  town.  The  building 
was  more  pretentious  than  the  others,  more 
so  even  than  that  of  the  padre,  by  reason  of  its 
swinging  wooden  door,  painted  white,  and  its 
two  windows  with  panes  of  glass  guarded  by 
heavy  iron  bars. 

The  interior,  however,  was  but  a  single  room, 
floored  unevenly  with  reddish  brick,  which  was 
covered  here  and  there  with  bright-hued  zarapes 
woven  by  the  natives  of  Michoacan.  A  rough 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  33 

table,  a  few  chairs  and  settee  of  bent  wood,  a 
huge  chest  of  drawers,  black  and  scarred,  that 
had  come  from  France  in  the  days  of  Maximilian, 
and  an  iron  bed,  were  all  the  furniture  of  which 
this  room  could  boast.  On  the  walls  were  prints 
and  engravings  cut  from  illustrated  papers,  some 
rifles  and  revolvers  hanging  from  iron  hooks. 
Through  the  half-open  door  that  led  into  the 
little  patio  in  the  rear,  one  could  see  part  of  a 
brushwood  shed,  beneath  which  was  the  stone, 
cut  at  regular  intervals  with  holes  for  the  burning 
charcoal,  and  which  served  as  a  cooking-stove. 
Some  lean  chickens  stalked  about  the  sunburned 
yard,  venturing  now  and  then  into  the  room, 
cautiously,  and  with  quick,  nervous  twists  of  the 
head. 

The  room  was  deserted,  save  for  some  one 
who  lay  upon  the  bed,  a  form  outlined  under 
the  white  coverings.  For  a  time  it  would  lay 
quite  still,  and  then,  with  a  low  moan,  turn 
over,  and  two  trembling,  emaciated  hands  were 
stretched  out  as  if  in  dumb  pleading.  As  the 


34  The  Greatest  of  the 

form  turned,  a  yellow,  cadaverous  face  was 
exposed,  covered  with  dark  blotches  that  shaded 
from  purple  to  brown.  The  eyes  were  closed 
in  the  stupor  of  the  fever.  An  indescribable 
odor,  peculiar  to  the  typhus,  filled  the  apart 
ment. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  hag,  wrinkled  and 
bent  with  age,  entered  the  room.  Her  face  was 
so  furrowed  that  no  features  were  clearly  distin 
guishable,  save  the  hawk  nose  and  the  eyes  that 
glittered  like  black  crystals  set  in  old  mahogany. 
She  saw  the  chickens  which  had  wandered  into 
the  room,  and  drove  them,  with  muttered  curses, 
out  into  the  patio,  closing  the  door  upon  them. 
Then  filling  a  clay  cup  from  a  jar  that  stood  in 
the  corner,  she  held  it  to  the  sick  man's  lips, 
crooning  the  while.  The  sufferer  greedily  drank 
the  liquid  and  then  sank  back  upon  the  hard 
pillow.  The  old  woman  replaced  the  cup,  and 
after  a  glance  to  assure  herself  that  the  eyes  of  the 
sick  man  were  closed,  she  put  her  hand  down 
into  the  covers  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  drew 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  35 

out  a  small  leathern  bag.  This  she  opened,  and 
peered  greedily  at  the  silver  and  copper  coins 
within.  Her  long  bony  fingers  picked  out  a 
tlaco,  a  copper  coin  worth  but  the  fraction  of  a 
cent,  and  slipped  it  into  a  rent  in  the  rag  that 
served  her  as  a  dress.  She  carefully  put  back  the 
bag,  mumbling  to  herself,  as  if  in  justification  of 
her  petty  theft:  "Los  muertos  no  pagan" 
("The  dead  do  not  pay"),  and  then  went 
out  again,  closing  the  street  door  softly  behind 
her. 

The  shadows  of  the  low  houses  grew  longer, 
moving  across  the  white  dusty  street  till  they 
clambered  up  the  adobe  fronts  on  the  opposite 
side.  The  sun  reddened  as  it  dipped  down  to 
the  Sierra,  and  a  puff  of  chilling  air  swept  in  from 
the  north.  The  bell  in  the  church-tower  toned 
the  hour  of  vespers,  and  some  charcoal  burners, 
bent  under  the  huge  baskets  they  had  carried 
that  day  from  the  wooded  mountains  which  lay 
far  to  the  west,  called  out  their  long  quavering 
cry  :  "Tecolli,  Teco-o-o-o-l-li  !  "  The  sick  man 


36  The  Greatest  of  the 

moved,  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  about  him, 
and  as  he  did  so  the  door  swung  back  and 
Xicaltetecon  entered. 

"Alone!"  she  cried,  breathlessly,  "and  old 
Trinidad  swore  to  me  upon  her  rosary  that  she 
would  not  leave  you  a  step  !  Querido  mio, 
pobrecito  mio,"  and  with  the  tears  starting 
from  her  eyes,  the  girl  seized  the  burning  hand 
of  the  man  who  lay  upon  the  bed.  He  looked 
vaguely  at  her  at  first,  not  understanding.  Then 
a  glad  light  shone  for  a  moment  in  his  eyes,  and 
he  drew  her  brown  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it 
softly,  murmuring  :  "My  little  chicken,  my  little 
rabbit,  my  little  mouse." 

"Do  not  speak,  Carlos,"  she  whispered,  bend 
ing  over  and  putting  her  lips  to  his  forehead. 
"Let  me  tell  you  this.  To-night  there  will  be 
medicine  for  you,  medicine  that  will  make  you 
well  and  strong  again,  my  Carlos.  And  I  have 
paid  a  great  price  for  it  ;  but  you  will  forgive 
me,  amado."  She  fell  upon  her  knees  by  the 
bedside,  still  holding  his  hand,  and  hid  her  face 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  37 

in  the  covers.  The  sick  man  smiled  faintly  and 
stroked  her  dark  hair. 

The  shadows  were  creeping  into  the  room 
when  she  arose.  She  smoothed  his  pillow  and 
arranged  the  disordered  covers  upon  his  bed. 
Then  she  went  out  into  the  little  shed  in  the 
patio  and  fanned  the  ignited  charcoal  under  the 
iron  pot  till  it  roared  like  the  fire  in  a  blacksmith's 
forge.  It  had  grown  dark  when  she  reentered 
the  room  with  a  smoking  cup  of  broth  in  her 
hand.  The  sick  man  drank  and  fell  back  upon 
his  pillow  with  a  sigh,  his  eyes  soon  closing  in 
the  coma  of  the  fever.  Xicaltetecon  did  not  light 
a  taper,  a  bundle  of  which  lay  upon  the  table, 
but  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside,  and  sat  there, 
gazing  into  the  darkness,  with  widely  strained 
eyes. 

Her  body  was  broken  by  fatigue  and  her  brain 
wearied  to  numbness  by  the  agony  of  it  all, 
stupefied  by  the  inevitable,  as  that  of  a  con 
demned  man  the  night  before  execution.  She 
listened  to  the  breathing  of  the  man  who  lay 


38  The  Greatest  of  the 

beside  her,  growing  more  labored,  more  ster 
torous,  as  the  hours  of  the  night  were  marked 
out  of  the  present  into  the  past  by  the  bells  of  the 
tower.  Perhaps  she  slept,  but  when  the  clock 
struck  ten  she  found  herself  mechanically  count 
ing  the  strokes,  and  the  sound  seemed  to  jar  a 
window  in  her  brain,  which  flew  open  and  she 
saw  the  past,— how  she  had  met  him  out  there 
by  the  mine,  whither  she  had  gone  to  sell  fruit 
and  necuayotl  to  the  men  who  labored  and 
dreamed  therein.  He  was  standing  by  the 
mouth  of  the  shaft,  clad  in  blue  shirt  and 
trousers  spotted  with  the  yellow  clay,  and  his 
long  hair  glinted  like  gold  in  the  sunlight  under  a 
curious  hat,  such  as  no  Mexican  had  ever  worn. 
He  had  looked  at  her  and  smiled  and  said  : 
"Adios,  chiquita,"  with  uncouth  Northern  ac 
cent,  and  she  had  laughed,  drawing  her  rebozo 
more  closely  about  her  face.  Thereafter  they 
had  met  one  evening  by  the  acequia,  whither 
she  had  gone  for  water,  and  he,  the  blond  god, 
had  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her,  whis- 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  39 

pering  that  she  was  more  beautiful  than  the 
velvet-cloaked  Madonna  over  the  altar  in  the 
little  church.  Then  to  her  the  heavens  had 
glowed  as  if  with  the  fires  of  a  mightier  sun,  and 
she  had  been  glad  with  the  gladness  of  angels. 
She  had  been  as  faithful  to  him  as  the  dog  to  its 
master,  wondering  and  worshipping,  singing 
the  day  long  of  the  coming  night  which  would 
bring  him  home  to  her  from  the  mine.  He 
never  went  out  with  the  men  to  the  cantinas,  but 
after  nightfall  he  was  wont  to  close  the  door 
tightly  and  pore  over  the  letters  and  papers  the 
stagecoach  brought  him,  explaining  to  her,  as  she 
sat  by  his  side,  the  great  world  he  had  left,  and 
which  she  knew  must  be  filled  with  noise  and 
clamor  and  all  distraction.  Then  he  would  draw 
her  upon  his  knee,  her  arm  would  creep  about 
his  neck,  their  lips  would  meet, 

"  And  overhead  there  shook  a  silver  star." 

.  .  .  .  The  picture  grew  dimmer  and  she 
slept  again. 


40  The  Greatest  of  the 

"  Xicaltetecon  ! "  The  word  penetrated  to  her 
brain  like  a  spear  driven,  and  at  the  same  time 
she  felt  a  hand  upon  her  arm.  She  opened  her 
eyes  and  saw  the  figure  of  the  rayed  sun  that 
hung  between  the  breasts  of  Nantli  Colotl  glow 
ing  in  the  darkness.  What  was  it  ?  Why  was 
the  priestess  there  ?  But  it  all  came  back  more 
quickly  than  the  lightning  of  the  rainless  storms 
strikes  upon  the  barren  peak  of  Penon  Grande. 

"Nelli,  it  is  well,"  she  said,  springing  to  her 
feet.  "Wait  till  I  make  light."  She  crossed 
the  room,  and,  after  fumbling  in  a  drawer,  struck 
a  wax  match  and  lit  two  of  the  yellow  tapers. 
As  the  flame  of  the  sputtering  wicks  grew 
brighter,  she  saw  the  priestess  standing  by  the 
bed  of  the  sick  man,  bending  over  to  see  his 
face. 

"Ca,  ca  ! "  exclaimed  Nantli  Colotl;  "it  is 
time  I  came  !  A  day  more  and  all  the  power  of 
Quetzalcoatl,  the  greatest  of  the  gods,  and  the 
virtues  of  the  sacred  plant,  could  not  have  saved 
him  from  the  shadows  of  Miquiliztli." 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  41 

The  priestess  held  in  her  hand  a  small  jar, 
which  she  placed  upon  the  table,  and  then  threw 
aside  the  long  zarape  in  which  her  tall  form  had 
been  draped. 

"Now,  quick,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  girl 
who  stood  waiting  by  her  side  ;  "give  me  rags 
of  cotton  cloth  the  size  of  thy  hand." 

Xicaltetecon  seized  a  white  garment  from  a 
nail  and  tore  it  into  bits.  The  priestess  dipped  a 
wooden  spoon  into  her  jar  and  spread  the  thick, 
viscid  contents  upon  each  piece  of  cloth,  which 
she  at  once  applied  to  the  body  of  the  sick  man, 
continuing  the  operation  until  his  entire  body  and 
face  were  completely  covered  with  these  plas 
ters.  She  rolled  him  in  the  blankets  and  zarapes 
which  were  upon  the  bed,  and  threw  everything 
else  she  could  find  in  the  nature  of  covering 
upon  him.  Some  of  the  paste  she  forced  into  his 
mouth,  and,  taking  one  of  the  tapers,  burned 
more  of  it  under  his  nostrils,  compelling  him  to 
inhale  the  pungent  vapor. 

"  Quix  !  Qualli  \  "  («  jt  js  done  !  It  is  good  !  ") 


42  The  Greatest  of  the 

exclaimed  the  priestess  ;  and  then,  looking  at  the 
stars  that  glittered  in  the  cold  sky  :  "It  is  mid 
night.  At  three  the  medicine  must  be  taken 
from  him,  or  it  would  kill  him.  I  will  wait  till 
then.  Xitlapacho  in  tletl "  ("  Put  out  the  light"), 
"Xicaltetecon." 

The  girl  extinguished  the  tapers,  and  the 
priestess,  drawing  closely  about  her  the  long 
zarape,  crouched  down  in  a  corner,  leaning  her 
head  against  the  wall.  Xicaltetecon  threw  her 
self  upon  a  chair  by  the  table,  and  buried  her 
head  in  her  arms.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  silence 
without.  The  round  moon,  climbing  up  the  sky, 
cast  its  beams  through  the  barred  windows,  and 
even  to  the  bed  whereon  lay  the  fevered  man, 
whose  breathing  was  now  inaudible. 

The  bells  struck  two.  Xicaltetecon  arose,  and 
seeing  that  the  priestess  slept,  crept  over  to  the 
bed,  and,  bending  down,  kissed  her  lover's  lips, 
well  knowing  that  such  kiss  meant  death  to  her. 
She  whispered  something  to  him  (as  if  in  his 
deep  stupor  he  could  hear),  the  last  farewell  to 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  43 

the  living  of  the  one  about  to  die.  She  told  him 
all  that  was  in  her  heart,  all  the  wondrous  mys 
teries  of  a  woman's  boundless  love  ;  the  same  in 
every  clime,  rare  though  it  be.  Then  as  the 
clock  struck  three  she  rose,  awoke  the  priestess, 
and  without  a  word  opened  the  door  and  passed 
out  into  the  night. 

"Tell  me  again,  Pedro,  and  if  I  find  you  have 
lied  to  me  I  will  shoot  you  down  like  a  dog  ;  and 
you  know  that  the  jefe  politico  is  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  would  not  trouble  me  on  account  of 
your  death." 

The  speaker  was  a  man  from  the  North,  who 
spoke  with  little  mercy  of  grammar  the  soft 
Southern  tongue.  He  sat  by  the  door  of  the 
adobe  house,  swathed  in  heavy  zarapes,  his  pale 
face  showing  in  strong  contrast  to  the  bright 
colors  of  the  blanket. 

The  one  whom  he  addressed  was  a  typical 
Mexican  of  the  lower  class,  clad  in  cotton  shirt 
and  trousers,  his  peaked  felt  hat  on  the  back  of 


44  The  Greatest  of  the 

his  head.  His  dark  complexion  and  thick  lips 
indicated  his  Otome  origin. 

"  I  swear  it  is  true,  Don  Carlos,  by  the  soul  of 
my  mother  and  by  the  cross/'  replied  the  peon, 
earnestly.  "You  may  ask  every  one  in  the 
village  and  the  padre  himself.  It  is  as  I  told  you. 
Two  weeks  ago  to-day — 'twas  the  day  of  San 
Antonio— she  left  your  house  and  went  to  live 
with  Jose,  the  arriero.  He  boasted  of  it,  Senor, 
at  the  cantina,  and  I  myself  saw  her  at  the  door 
of  his  hut,  not  once,  but  twice.  And  a  week 
ago  she  herself  was  stricken  with  the  fever,  the 
folgorante,  Senor,  that  kills  like  the  lightning, 
and  the  next  day  she  was  dead." 

"Go  on,  Pedro." 

"  Bueno,  Senor.  That  night  Jose  and  I  carried 
her  to  the  Campo  Santo,  and  buried  her  outside 
the  wall — for  as  you  know,  Don  Carlos,  she  was 
not  of  the  Church,  and  could  not  be  put  in  holy 
ground — on  the  other  side,  near  the  clump  of 
huisache  trees." 

"Yes?" 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  45 

' '  And  we  wrapped  her  in  the  blue  zarape,  and  " 
(here  the  peon  lowered  his  voice)  "  I  took  one  of 
your  empty  wine  bottles,  Sefior,  and  filled  it 
with  holy  water  from  the  font  in  the  church,  and 
sprinkled  it  on  her.  You  will  not  tell  the  padre, 
Don  Carlos  ?  For  if  he  knew  it  he  would  curse 
me  and  make  me  bring  him  a  load  of  wood  from 
the  Sierra  for  penance." 

"Esta  bien,  Pedro,"  said  Don  Carlos,  rising 
slowly  and  painfully  to  his  feet  ;  "I  think  I  am 
strong  enough  to  walk  there  with  your  help. 
So,  let  me  rest  on  your  arm." 

Slowly  the  two  men  walked  along  the  dusty 
street,  in  the  slanting  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  At 
their  doors  the  people  gave  Don  Carlos  kindly 
greeting:  "  Buenas  tardes,  Don  Carlos  ;"  "Adios, 
caballero."  It  was  not  far  to  the  little  Campo 
Santo,  where  the  orthodox  natives  of  Tezcomaya 
continued  their  dreaming  after  death.  Arrived 
at  the  iron  gate  which  but  made  pretence  of 
closing  the  holy  ground  to  the  outer  world, 
for  there  was  no  fence  about  it,  they  did  not 


46  The  Greatest  of  the 

enter,  but  turned  to  the  right,  and  a  few  steps 
brought  them  to  the  cluster  of  low,  graceful 
huisache  trees  which  had  sprung  up,  no  one 
knew  why  or  how,  from  the  baked,  waterless 
clay. 

"Alia,  Senor,"  said  the  peon,  pointing  to  a  low 
mound,  at  one  end  of  which  a  piece  of  board,  a 
rare  and  precious  thing  in  this  land,  had  been 
stuck  into  the  ground.  Nothing  had  been  writ 
ten  upon  it,  for  neither  Jose,  the  arriero,  nor 
Pedro  knew  how  to  write,  and  they  dared  not 
ask  the  padre. 

"It  is  well,  Pedro  ;  leave  me  here  a  while,  and 
go  you  and  wait  for  me  at  the  gate  of  the  Campo 
Santo." 

"Si,  Senor,"  and  the  peon  turned  obediently 
and  walked  away. 

"Ah,  little  one,"  said  Don  Carlos,  this  time  in 
his  own  tongue,  for  he  was  speaking  to  himself, 
"  I  had  believed  in  you  as  I  had  never  believed  in 
woman.  You  were  the  only  thing  I  ever  loved, 
and  yet  when  hope  of  my  life  was  gone,  you  fled 


Gods  is  Quetzalcoatl  47 

to  another,  not  even  waiting  till  the  breath  had 
left  my  body."  He  laughed,  a  laugh  that  was 
akin  to  a  sob.  "And  yet  why  should  I  blame 
you  ?  Why  ask  more  of  you,  poor  child,  than  of 
the  women  of  my  own  land  ?  Nay,  sleep  soft 
and  sweet  to  all  eternity,  little  Xicaltetecon." 


The  Water  Lady 


And  there  are  some  that  shim 
mer  with  the  blue  of  heaven, 
and  these  speak  of  love." 


The 

Water 
Lady 

(~)HE  !  Hombre!" 

The  peon,  at  the  call,  dropped  his  shovel 
and  looked  up.  He  saw  a  tall,  blond-bearded 
man  bestriding  a  black  horse,  and  behind  him 
another  horseman  mounted  upon  a  handsome 
gray,  leading  two  pack  mules.  The  dress  and 
arms  of  the  one  who  spoke,  as  well  as  the  em 
broidered  saddle  upon  which  he  sat,  told  of 
authority,  so  the  peon  took  off  his  ragged  straw 
hat  and  answered  :  "  Si,  senor." 

' '  Tell  me,  man,  what  place  is  that  ?  "  spoke  the 
horseman,  pointing  to  a  straggling  collection 
of  huts  that  speckled  the  sand  about  a  mile 
away. 


52  The  Water  Lady 

"Jesus  Maria,  senor,"  answered  the  peon, 
twirling  his  straw  hat. 

"  And  where  is  Concepcion  ?" 

"  Quien  sabe,  senor?" 

"Look  here,  my  man  !"  said  the  horseman, 
with  a  slight  impatience  in  his  tone,  though  he 
knew  how  fruitless  it  was  to  be  angry  with  these 
people  ;  "it  means  a  real  for  you  to  know,  and 
the  devil's  own  time  if  you  don't.  Sabes  ?  " 

"You  mean  the  city  of  Concepcion,  senor?" 
queried  the  peon,  eying  the  silver  piece  which 
the  other  held  in  his  fingers. 

"Yes,  if  you  want  to  call  it  a  city." 

"  Bueno,  senor.  It  lies  over  there,  but  there's 
no  trail,  and  if  you  want  to  be  sure  you  had 
better  go  to  the  gulf  and  follow  along  the 
beach." 

"  And  where  lies  the  gulf?  " 

"  Over  there  about  two  leagues,  and  then,  by 
the  scratched  leg  of  your  horse,  two  leagues 
more  to  Concepcion." 

The  horseman  tossed  the  peon  the  silver  piece 


The  Water  Lady  53 

and  turned  his  horse's  head  in  the  direction  in 
dicated  by  the  native. 

"I've  got  my  bearings  now,"  he  said,  speak 
ing  in  English  to  himself.  "We're  below  Con- 
cepcion,  and  not  above  it  as  I  feared  ;  for  it's 
Bonita's  right  foreleg  that  is  scratched,  which 
means  to  the  right  and  north  after  we  strike  the 
shore." 

He  pricked  his  horse  into  a  gallop,  his  long 
sword  clinking  against  the  silver  buckles  as  the 
animal  rose  and  fell,  and  his  servant  followed 
close  behind,  urging  on  the  pack  mules.  They 
sped  over  the  sandy  plain,  which  swelled  here 
and  there  into  hillocks,  held  together  by  bunches 
of  coarse  grass,  flecked  with  the  livid  green  of 
the  prickly  pear.  The  blots  of  Jesus  Maria  were 
soon  lost  to  view,  and  on  every  side  the  dreary 
waste  was  patched  to  the  clouds.  A  half-hour's 
ride  and  a  faint  breeze  blew  cool  upon  the  horse 
man's  face.  "Salt,"  he  muttered;  "we  have 
only  to  follow  our  noses  now  to  reach  blue 
water."  He  glanced  back,  and  seeing  that  the 


54  The  Water  Lady 

pace  was  too  hot  for  his  mules,  drew  rein  into  a 
jog  trot. 

Now  the  low  roar  of  the  heaving,  curling 
water  came  to  his  ear  ;  then  he  saw  a  narrow 
line  of  deeper  blue  than  the  sky,  which  broadened 
out  as  he  neared  it  into  the  Gulf  of  California. 
The  waters  shimmered  and  danced  in  the  sun 
light,  rolling  heavily  about  the  long  sand-spits 
which  stretched  out  into  the  cool  waves  like  the 
parched  tongues  of  the  land.  The  rider  dis 
mounted,  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  drew  deep 
breaths  of  the  wind.  The  horse  snorted  at  the 
sight  of  water,  tugging  at  the  bridle  which  its 
owner  still  held  in  his  hand.  The  man  laughed. 
"Try  it  if  you  want  to,  you  landlubber,"  and  he 
led  the  animal  to  the  water's  edge.  It  plunged 
its  nose  into  a  pool,  but  drew  it  quickly  out,  and 
turned  its  round  soft  eyes  to  its  master  with  a 
look  of  amazement  and  reproach. 

"Jose,  we  will  let  the  animals  rest  for  half  an 
hour,  and  then  follow  along  the  beach  to  Con- 
cepcion." 


The  Water  Lady  S5 

"Si,  Don  Vicente."  The  servant  dismounted, 
and,  taking  the  bridle  of  his  own  horse  and  that 
of  his  master's,  stood  holding  them,  while  the 
pack  mules,  fastened  by  a  lariat  to  the  saddle- 
peak,  brought  their  noses  together  and  stood 
patiently  blinking  at  the  vast  sheet  of  scintillating 
blue. 

Don  Vicente  threw  himself  down  upon  the 
shell-strewn  sand,  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  blew 
clouds  of  smoke  into  the  sky,  watching  the  while 
the  antics  of  white  gulls  that  flew  screaming 
above  him. 

The  time  up,  they  were  again  in  the  saddle, 
trotting  along  the  beach,  so  close  to  the  waves 
that  at  times  the  foam-fringed  water  shot  up 
about  the  hoofs  of  the  horses.  Brown  and  long- 
legged  snipe  ran  on  ahead  of  the  cavalcade,  with 
plaintive  "weep,  weep,"  rarely  taking  wing; 
and  small  pink  crabs  sank  into  the  sand,  leaving 
a  hole  and  a  bubble. 

It  was  a  good  hour's  ride  ere  the  low  houses 
of  Nuestra  Sefiora  de  Concepcion  (to  give  the  an- 


56  The  Water  Lady 

cient  place  its  full  name)  rose  into  view,  wedged 
in  at  the  head  of  a  narrow  bay,  up  which  the  long 
surges,  pushed  by  wind  and  tide,  rolled  foam- 
crowned  and  menacing.  The  white  beach  that 
spread  out  like  a  fan  in  front  of  the  village  was 
bestrewn  with  the  long,  flat-bottomed  boats  of 
the  pearl-divers,  hauled  up  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  waters.  Beyond  the  town,  on  a  sandhill, 
rose  the  cathedral,  gray  and  pink  in  the  sun 
light,  capped  with  bell-tower,  while  beyond  and 
close  to  the  gulf  were  the  crumbling  walls  of  an 
old  monastery,  long  since  abandoned  by  its  holy 
tenants. 

Entering  the  town  and  winding  along  a  nar 
row  street,  Don  Vicente  drew  rein  in  front  of  a 
square,  single-storied  house,  which  a  blue  sign 
with  white  lettering  proclaimed  to  be  the  Inn  of 
the  Three  Pearls  ;  and  this  anyone  who  could  not 
read  might  see  for  himself  in  the  three  blotches  of 
white,  shaded  with  pink  and  green  and  spawn 
ing  long  rays  of  yellow  paint. 

The  arrival  of  a  stranger  in  this  ancient  and 


The  Water  Lady  57 

musty  town  was  something  which  had  not 
occurred  a  score  of  times  within  the  memory 
of  man,  and  the  bronzed  natives  gathered  close 
in  the  narrow  street,  silently  and  respectfully 
admiring. 

The  owner  of  the  hostelry,  one  Don  Pablo 
Perez,  a  short  stout  man  with  saffron  face  and 
bristling  mustache,  affectionately  known  to  his 
wife  as  El  Perezoso  (the  lazy  one),  stood  blinking 
at  the  door. 

"My  poor  house  is  yours,"  he  repeated,  bow 
ing  mechanically,  as  the  stranger  swung  himself 
from  his  horse  ;  and  then,  when  the  landlord 
saw  the  new-comer's  face  close  to  his  own,  he 
exploded  :  "By  the  glory  of  God!  It  is  Don 
Vicente  himself !  The  Don  Vicente  !  "  and  his 
fat  body  was  stricken  as  with  galvanism.  He 
bounded  like  a  rubber  ball  to  the  horse's  bridle. 
"Pedro!  Mateo  !  You  sons  of  Satan!  His 
Excellency's  horse  and  baggage  !  Manolita  !  " 
he  yelled,  turning  houseward  that  his  voice 
might  carry  through  the  open  door,  "'tis  His 


58  The  Water  Lady 

Excellency  the  Americano  of  the  North.  Be 
quick  and  stir  thy  big  legs,  Manolita." 

A  dozen  natives  sprang  forward  to  hold  the 
horse  and  assist  in  unloading  the  patient  mules 
under  the  direction  of  Don  Vicente's  servant, 
while  a  thick-set  woman  of  pure  Andalusian 
blood  appeared  at  the  door,  her  dark  eyes  danc 
ing  with  excitement. 

"Hold  thy  noise,  Pablo!"  she  exclaimed; 
"  there  is  no  need  to  destroy  His  Excellency's 
hearing  with  thy  shrieking.  This  way,  Excel 
lency.  You  shall  have  the  best  room,  the  one 
you  had  last  time,  and  I  will  send  for  my  cou 
sin's  feather  pillow  for  your  head.  Will  you 
have  a  chicken  or  a  kid  killed  ?" 

"  A  chicken  will  do  for  to-day,  Senora,"  said 
the  guest,  smiling  at  the  warmth  of  his  recep 
tion,  ''but  roasted,  asado,  you  know,  and  in  a 
clean  pan  without  the  taste  of  onions." 

"Si,  Si,  Senor.  Manolita  forgets  nothing;  and 
if  'twere  not  for  her,  God  only  knows  where  the 
fonda  would  be  by  this  time,  with  only  such 


The  Water  Lady  59 

a  lump  of  nothing  as  her  husband  to  care 
for  it." 

''Perhaps  in  the  fondo  of  the  gulf,"  replied 
Don  Vicente,  laughing  at  his  own  pun,  as  the 
matron  led  the  way  to  the  low-ceiled  room, 
which,  with  its  furnishings,  was  the  pride  of 
the  village. 

"There,  Don  Vicente,  you  will  sleep  like  an 
angelito  here,"  she  said,  ushering  him  in.  "See 
the  new  blanket  I  bought  at  La  Plaz  for  sixteen 
reales,  though,  by  the  soul  of  my  mother,  I 
could  get  it  in  Michoacan  for  eight.  The  way 
they  rob  the  poor  here  is  an  unhappiness  to  the 
saints  in  paradise." 

She  chattered  on,  while  the  traveller,  seating 
himself  upon  the  low  bed,  unscrewed  his  heavy 
silver  spurs,  hanging  them  on  one  of  the  wooden 
pegs  that  were  driven  into  the  wall.  Then,  after 
washing  his  face  and  hands  in  a  pannikin  of 
water,  he  lit  a  cigarette  and  strolled  out  into  the 
patio,  where  Don  Pablo  sat  impatiently  awaiting 
him,  in  company  with  a  bottle  and  two  glasses. 


60  The  Water  Lady 

"You  must  forgive  my  wife,  Don  Vicente;  a 
green  parrot  is  nothing  to  her  for  noise,"  said 
the  host,  rising.  "No  one  has  smelled  of  this 
tequila  since  you  were  here  last  year,  and  a  cup 
of  it  is  good  for  ten  years  of  life." 

"Salud,  amigo,"  replied  Don  Vicente,  emp 
tying  his  glass  of  the  transparent  liquor  at  a 
single  gulp.  "  What  is  there  new  ?  " 

"Mucho,  mucho,  Don  Vicente.  I  must  talk 
with  you  long  and  seriously  after  your  meal,  for 
it  concerns  a  compatriot  of  yours  who  came  here 
four  months  ago, — perhaps  a  friend,  quien  sabe  ? " 

"His  name ?  "  queried  Don  Vicente. 

"  God  knows.  I  will  go  and  get  the  book  and 
you  can  read  it  for  yourself.  Here  we  called  him 
Don  Fernando." 

"Tell  me  the  story  now,"  said  the  American, 
"for  Dona  Manolita  has  just  caught  her  chicken, 
and  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  it  is  served." 

The  innkeeper  drained  his  glass,  and,  accept 
ing  a  cigarette  proffered  by  Don  Vicente,  settled 
himself  back  in  his  straw-bottomed  chair.  "You 


The  Water  Lady  61 

must  know,  Sefior,"  he  began,  after  lighting  his 
cigarette  with  a  double-ended  Mexican  match 
and  putting  the  unburnt  piece  back  in  his  box 
for  future  use,  "that  this  Don  Fernando  came 
here  in  May — yes,  it  was  May.  He  was  tall — not 
so  tall  as  you,  but  with  hair  and  eyes  the  same 
color  as  yours.  He  had  a  couple  of  burros  carry 
ing  his  baggage,  and  was  seemingly  possessed 
of  much  money  in  good  Mexican  silver  pieces, 
together  with  some  paper  bills  on  Hermosillo 
which  I  did  not  like,  but  sent  on  to  my  brother 
in  Sonora,  and  he  said  they  were  good  as  gold. 
We  gave  him  your  room,  and  Manolita  fed  him 
on  chickens  and  kids  and  made  him  some  real 
bread,  for,  like  you,  he  hated  tortillas.  He 
stayed  on  and  on,  paying  me  three  good  silver 
dollars  a  week  for  his  board.  He  amused  him 
self  going  out  with  the  pearl  fishers,  and  would 
dive  better  than  any  of  them.  Old  Tiburcio,  the 
best  diver  of  the  lot,  told  me  the  Americano 
could  stay  under  water  longer  than  any  native, 
though  he  scarce  ever  troubled  to  bring  up  an 


62  The  Water  Lady 

oyster,  and  the  sharks  never  seemed  to  molest 
him." 

Don  Pablo  poured  himself  out  another  glass  of 
tequila,  held  it  up  to  the  light,  and,  then  taking  a 
sip,  continued  :  "He  was  pale  when  he  came, 
and  coughed,  but  he  grew  better  quickly  ;  and 
when  he  disappeared  he  was  strong  and  hearty 
as  myself,  though  not  so  fat.  Every  day  he  was 
in  the  water,  and  the  divers  said  he  was  search 
ing  for  the  great  pearl  which  my  father,  Juan 
Perez,  of  blessed  memory,  once  found  and  lost 
again,  but  I  know  better.  Bueno,  one  day  he 
went  off  in  his  boat  with  old  Pacheco,  and  when 
out  by  the  island  of  Los  Tiburones  dived,  and, 
Dios  de  mi  alma  !  never  came  up  again  !  Old 
Pacheco  swore  to  it,  and  the  men  in  the  other 
boats  that  were  near  saw  it,  as  well.  Po- 
brecito  ! " 

Here  Don  Pablo  helped  himself  to  another 
glassful  from  the  white  bottle,  and  to  another 
cigarette  from  the  package  which  Don  Vicente 
had  left  upon  the  table. 


The  Water  Lady  63 

"So  the  poor  fellow  is  dead!"  said  the 
American;  "gone  unshriven  into  the  stomach 
of  a  shark,  I  suppose." 

Don  Pablo  looked  carefully  about  him  and 
then  drew  his  chair  closer  to  that  of  his  guest. 
"There  are  ears  glued  to  the  walls  here,  Senor, 
and  we  must  speak  low.  Every  one  thinks  him 
dead,  but  some  curious  things  have  happened. 
You  know,  Don  Vicente,  that  I  am  like  you,  un 
hombre  cientifico,  materialista,  positivista,  and  I 
do  not  believe  in  witchcraft,  nor  ghosts,  nor  the 
incantations  of  the  divers  to  drive  away  the 
sharks.  As  for  the  priests,  they  are  good  enough 
for  the  women  and  children,  but  for  men  such  as 
you  and  I,  pah  !  "  Don  Pablo  waved  his  hand  in 
a  gesture  of  infinite  contempt.  "Now,  Senor," 
continued  the  narrator,  "it  was  two  days  after 
his  death,  and  I  had  made  his  clothing  and  books 
into  a  bundle,  most  carefully,  and  put  them  in 
that  room,  the  one  over  there  by  the  well,  and 
one  day  this  bundle  vanished,— Si,  Senor,  van 
ished, — and  in  its  place  were  six  dollars,  the  sum 


64  The  Water  Lady 

he  owed  me.  Now,  no  one  came  into  the  place 
that  day  but  an  old  woman,  though  my  wife 
says  I  was  asleep  and  the  devil  himself  might 
have  carried  off  the  fonda.  The  divers  will  all 
swear  that  time  and  again  since  then  they  have 
heard  voices  and  laughter  in  the  wooded  isle  of 
Los  Tiburones.  Old  Panchita  Guasta,  who  lives 
in  the  ruins  of  the  monastery  and  never  owned  a 
tlaco,  now  comes  and  buys  chickens,  meat,  and 
fruit,  paying  for  them  with  broad  silver  pesos. 
Tis  a  most  difficult  problem,"  continued  Don 
Pablo,  scratching  his  head,  "and  I  can  make 
nothing  of  it.  But  Don  Fernando  left  some 
papers,  and  a  book  full  of  writing  in  the  English 
language,  I  think,  and  these  I  have,  for  I  had 
locked  them  in  the  cupboard  for  safe  keeping. 
I  will  get  them." 

He  bustled  away  and  soon  returned  with  a 
package  of  papers  and  a  small  leather-bound 
diary,  all  of  which  he  gave  to  Don  Vicente.  "  It 
would  be  well  for  you  to  read  these,  Sefior,  and 
find  his  residence  and  the  name  of  his  family,  and 


The  Water  Lady  65 

let  them  know  of  his  death,  for  in  spite  of  all, 
dead  he  must  be.  These  divers  are  not  to  be 
believed  in  matters  of  ghosts,  goblins,  and  mi 
raculous  virgins  who  ride  upon  the  waves  at 
night  with  pearls  in  their  long  hair,  but  in  mat 
ters  of  fact  they  tell  the  truth  ;  and  you  know  as 
well  as  I  or  any  hombre  cientifico  that  no  man 
can  live  under  the  sea,  and  as  for  ghosts,  'tis 
folly,  tonterias." 

Here  Manolita  interrupted,  carrying  a  smoking 
platter  and  a  bottle  of  red  wine.  Don  Pablo 
withdrew  to  bargain  with  a  donkey  driver  for  a 
load  of  onions. 

His  meal  despatched,  Don  Vicente  lit  a  cigar, 
and  drawing  up  a  chair  put  his  feet  upon  it. 
Then  he  took  up  the  diary,  curious  to  learn 
what  manner  of  man  he  might  be,  this  country 
man  of  his  who  had  been  devoured  by  the 
sharks,  and  who  (what  was  much  more  curi 
ous)  had  been  content  to  live  in  such  a  hole  as 
Concepcion  for  so  long  a  time.  It  was  no  easy 
matter  to  decipher  the  writing,  for,  owing  doubt- 


66  The  Water  Lady 

less  to  scarcity  of  paper  in  that  benighted  re 
gion,  the  writer  had  utilized  an  old  diary  after 
effacing  the  first  script  with  bread  or  rubber. 
His  pencil  had  marked  but  faintly  at  best,  gliding 
now  and  then  over  a  miniature  pond  of  grease, 
without  even  a  trace  of  its  passage.  The  reader 
was  interested,  and  managed  to  decipher  here 
and  there  a  word,  but  after  a  page  or  two  the 
writing  became  clear  and  legible  ;  and  thus  it 
ran  : 

"May  6th. — I  .  .  .  peace  .  .  .  Con- 
cepcion  .  .  .  fresh  eggs  .  .  .  fool  .  .  . 
unutterable  .  .  . 

"May  ...  the  soughing  of  the  waters 
lull  .  .  .  dreamless  .  .  .  but  in  me  dull 
all  creative  .  „  .  life  here  is  but  a  vision 
seen  in  a  trance  .  .  .  closer  .  .  .  nature 
.  .  .  turmoil  .  .  . 

"May  9th. — Sometimes  I  dream,  but  it  is  all 
so  misty  and  weblike  that  it  will  not  bear  the 
crystallization  of  a  pen.  The  colors  of  the  spec 
trum  and  more,  from  straight  lines  waving  into 


The  Water  Lady  67 

coruscant  halos  that  dampen  in  turn  into  filmy 
clouds  when  one  would  sense  them  into  words. 
These  lines  came  to  me  to-day  : 

And  God  breathed  color,  light,  and  sound, 
And  Silence  spoke  in  music  to  the  ear. 

In  all  the  universe  no  man  had  found 
Aught  but  himself  to  fear. 

all  of  which  is  bad  poetry,  and  I  don't  know 
what  I  meant  by  it.  I  neither  fear  nor  loathe 
myself.  I  have  lost  me ;  I  have  dissolved  it  into 
nature  like  a  lump  of  sugar  in  a  jar  of  water. 
There  is  nothing  here,  in  the  wide  sky,  the  shim 
mering  waters  of  the  gulf,  in  these  quaint  primi 
tive  folk,  to  make  me  bound  back  upon  myself 
and  find  my  own  personality.  All  this,  how 
ever,  is  but  the  mooning  of  a  convalescent. 
Too  weak  to  dominate  our  environment  we  float 
with  it,  inmiscent. 

"May  1 8th. — My  strength  leaps  back  in  this 
air,  soft  and  humid,  filled  with  the  foam  of  the 
salt  sea.  My  muscles  itch  for  action,  but  my 


68  The  Water  Lady 

brain  is  quick  weaned  of  work.  To-day  I  took 
a  plunge  in  the  waves,  in  company  with  some 
white  gulls  that  screamed  discordantly  at  my 
splashing  and  nervously  circled  about  my  head. 
After  the  bath  I  felt  like  a  Titan  and  ate  like  a 
Gorgon  (did  Gorgons  eat  ?). 

"May  1 9th. — To-day  is  a  feast  day,  devoted  to 
the  blessed  memory  of  some  saint  who  lived  a 
thousand  years  ago,  in  Africa  probably,  about 
whom  these  fellows  know  nothing,  and  consist 
ently  celebrate  him  by  doing  nothing.  That  is, 
nothing  but  lay  about  the  beach  and  yarn,  I 
listening.  There's  matter  for  a  dozen  poems 
in  their  tales,  but  I  cannot  write  now.  Old 
Pacheco,  bronzed,  grizzled,  perched  on  the  side 
of  a  boat,  tells  the  legend  of  the  great  pearl,  alike 
the  world  over.  Many  have  seen  it  at  the  sea 
bottom,  glowing  in  the  half-opened  shell  with 
light  of  its  own.  But  just  as  one  was  about 
to  seize  it,  it  vanished — no,  a  small,  delicate 
hand  was  stretched  out  and  drew  it  quickly 
away,  and  the  form  of  the  Water  Lady,  Nuestra 


The  Water  Lady  69 

Senora  de  las  Aguas,  could  be  seen  fading  into 
the  depths,  and  before  you  could  say  "Jack 
Robinson''  (supposing  one  could  say  anything 
under  water)  pearl,  lady,  and  all  had  gone. 
Old  Pacheco  had  seen  her,  and  his  father,  like 
wise  his  grandfather — it  seemed  to  run  in  the 
family.  No  mermaid,  this  Water  Lady,  no 
fish's  tail,  but  a  woman  of  fair  form  and  feature. 
These  folk  had  never  heard  of  mermaids,  other 
wise  they  would  have  given  her  a  tail,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  historical  consistency. 

"May  20th. — The  weekly  stage-coach  crawled 
in  to-day,  and  the  mail-sack  was  letterless  for 
me,  for  which  may  the  gods  be  praised.  I  hear 
nought,  I  want  nought,  of  the  outer  world. 
This  is  liberty — pure,  perfect.  To-morrow  I  go 
pearl  diving.  I  have  hired  old  Pacheco  and  his 
boat  for  a  month,  and  propose  to  walk  about 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.  To  avoid  unpleasant 
familiarity  I  have  learned  to  use  the  double- 
pointed  shark  dagger.  .  .  .  To-day  the 
white-maned  horses  of  the  gulf  tide  are  too 


70  The  Water  Lady 

lively   for  safety     .     .     .     may   to-morrow    be 
calm,  for  I  am  all  eagerness     .     .     . 

"May  22d. — Yesterday  before  sunrise  we  were 
off,  paddling  over  a  mirror-like  sea  with  the  sky 
in  it.  ...  Near  the  Isle  of  the  Sharks  (name 
of  ill  omen  !),  a  foam-splashed  acre  of  rock  and 
earth  covered  with  dense  foliage,  we  cast  anchor. 
Pacheco  prepared  the  heavy  iron  weight  and 
attached  it  to  the  rope.  Naked,  my  shark  dag 
ger  between  my  teeth,  my  feet  upon  the  weight, 
and  clutching  the  rope  with  my  hands,  I  gave 
the  word  to  the  old  man.  .  .  .  Down, 
down,  with  swiftness  incredible,  the  water  gur 
gling  and  humming  in  my  ears,  till  I  reached  the 
bottom,  twenty  feet  below  the  surface.  I  opened 
my  eyes  now  and  looked  about  me  .  .  .  the 
sunlight  filtered  through  the  water  in  waves  of 
white  and  green  light  which  trembled  with  the 
currents,  revealing  and  shadowing  in  turn.  A 
floor  of  hard  white  sand  inlaid  with  shells  of 
varied  hue  ;  the  brown  and  yellow  glandina, 
open-mouthed,  purpling  within  ;  the  flat  and 


The  Water  Lady  71 

fanlike  pectens  ;  the  spiked  murex,  reddening 
into  ruby  as  if  with  the  blood  of  impaled  fishes. 
Here  and  there  gleamed  a  jewelled  cyprsea,  like 
unto  a  lost  bit  of  a  queen's  diadem.  On  every 
side  rose  huge  sea  plants  with  arms  yearning  to 
the  light  and  air.  The  long  leaves  of  the  green 
algae  curled  in  the  swirling  tide  like  snakes, 
while  the  dreaded  Campo  Santo  plant,  so  called 
because  many  a  diver  has  been  held  in  its  hide 
ous  embrace,  shot  out  its  long  red  ribbons  like 
amorous  tongues  eager  to  seize  whatever  might 
come  within  their  reach.  .  .  .  Beyond  were 
dark  and  mystic  paths,  losing  themselves  in 
shadows,  leading  to  other  realms  of  the  deep, 
through  which  scaly  and  glistening  forms, 
grotesque  and  uncouth,  floated  lazily  or  darted 
arrow-like  in  flight  or  pursuit.  ...  It  was 
strangely  intoxicating,  that  life  of  the  sea,  the 
realm  of  mystery  forbidden  to  man  .  .  . 
strange  and  weird  in  the  soft,  solemn  light,  the 
infinite  silence,  and  the  clinging,  pressing,  lifting 
water.  ...  It  seemed  an  age  that  I  stood 


72  The  Water  Lady 

there  peering,  till  the  almost  bursting  lungs  gave 
warning,  and  I  shot  up  into  the  air  and  sunlight, 
and  was  dragged  half  fainting  into  the  boat  by 
old  Pacheco. 

"  By  the  mother  of  God,  Don  Fernando  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  piously,  "I  had  given  up  hope.  No 
diver  on  the  coast  ever  remained  longer  below  ! 
It  was  rash  of  you  to  try  it,  carramba  !"  My 
eyes  stung  for  a  long  time,  but  the  faintness 
passed  quickly  away,  and,  after  clothing  myself, 
I  could  do  my  share  at  the  paddle  as  we  sped 
homeward.  ...  In  my  sleep  that  night 
there  passed  before  me  visions  of  sea  nymphs, 
bacchantes,  and  what  not,  circling  in  merry 
dance,  half  mocking,  half  pleading,  as  though  I 
were  some  Gautama  or  Faustus  to  be  led  astray, 
though  in  good  sooth  'twere  no  hard  task  for 
them.  Some  bits  of  rhyme  jingled  through  my 
head,  the  burden  being 

Sing  the  sirens  songs  of  no  meaning 
As  rocked  on  the  waters  they  float, 
Guarding  the  pearl? 


The  Water  Lady  73 

.  .  .  but  the  rest  is  metrical  din.  I  can 
imagine  a  number  of  things  the  sirens  might 
sing  if  they  chose  to,  but  nothing  very  novel. 
.  .  .  Mayhap  'twas  a  great  poem,  quien 
sabe  ?  To-day  at  noon  I  go  out 

with  Pacheco,  and  will  dive  again  into  the 
depths.  They're  as  fascinating  as  the  Venusberg. 
''May  28th. — To-day  I  went  down  seven 
times,  and  the  divers  are  amazed  at  the  length 
of  time  I  can  stay  under  water.  My  watch,  left 
in  the  boat  with  Pacheco,  showed  five  minutes, 
something  unheard  of  among  them.  I  tore  off 
and  brought  up  some  pearl  oysters,  to  please  the 
old  Indian,  who  thought  I  must  have  good  luck, 
buena  suerte,  but  they  contained  but  seed  pearls, 
and  these  of  poor  quality  and  scarce  any  orient. 
While  I  was  below,  a  huge  shark  swam  close 
to  me,  staring  at  me  with  his  small,  devilish 
eyes.  I  held  my  dagger  ready  to  plunge  it  into 
his  cavernous  mouth,  but  he  had  decided  not  to 
attack,  and  with  a  whisk  of  his  tail  vanished 
behind  a  clump  of  the  Campo  Santo  plant. 


74  The  Water  Lady 

.  .  .  Since  I  have  used  the  oil  on  my  body 
and  face  before  diving,  my  eyes  do  not  pain  me 
any  more.  .  .  . 

"June  6th. — The  days  flash  by,  full  of  nothing; 
empty,  at  least,  of  things  distasteful.  Eden  must 
have  been  something  like  this — an  endless  sum 
mer  time,  full  of  things  humming  and  buzzing 
and  droning,  and  little  waves  lapping  and  splash 
ing,  ticking  time  smoothly  away.  .  .  .  1  am 
not  even  lonely,  and  yet  .  .  . 

"June  1 2th. — I  wonder  if  the  gods  make  mad 
those  who  enter  a  forbidden  realm  ?  Was  it  fact 
or  phantasy  ...  a  day  dream,  a  sugges 
tion  ?  .  .  .  If  I  write  it  out  before  me,  I 
may  understand  it  better.  .  .  . 

"This,  then,  is  what  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw 
to-day,  in  the  green  depths,  wherein  I  now 
tread  and  float  at  will — a  woman's  face,  weirdly 
beautiful  in  the  pale  emerald  light  that  shim 
mered  from  above,  looked  out  at  me  from  a 
cluster  of  giant  algae.  One  must  think  quickly 
when  one  cannot  breathe,  and  I  leapt  toward 


The  Water  Lady  75 

her.  As  I  did  so  she  fled,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  an  exquisite  form  ere  it  disappeared  into  one 
of  the  dark  paths  that  led  toward  the  rock 
foundation  of  the  Isle  of  the  Sharks,  for  I  was 
then  quite  near  it.  I  could  not  stay  to  follow, 
but  when  I  had  mounted  to  the  surface  and 
breathed,  I  plunged  again,  and  sought  her  madly, 
pushing  on  through  the  swaying  algae  till  I 
reached  the  wall  of  rock,  but  in  vain.  Only  a 
swarm  of  foul  bladder  fish — owls  of  the  sea — 
flashed  about  me  in  blind  struggle  to  escape. 
...  I  cannot  make  it  out.  Is  the  legend  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Waters  true,  as  told  by  old  Pacheco, 
or  was  this  form  but  a  creation  of  my  brain,  pro 
jected  upon  the  crystal  background  of  the  swirl 
ing  waters?  I  could  not  see  that  face  clearly, 
yet  every  feature  is  clearly  stamped  upon  my 
memory.  Were  I  a  painter,  I  could  now  lay  it 
sharply  with  pigment  upon  canvas — the  arching 
brows  ;  the  deep,  dark  eyes  ;  the  full  lips,  lifted 
at  the  corners  into  a  smile  ;  the  long  black  hair 
that  spread  out  behind  her  as  she  fled  ;  the  swell- 


76  The  Water  Lady 

ing  hips  and  tapering  limbs  ;  all  these  details 
are  too  concise  for  something  that  was  but  the 
wraith  of  a  memory-conjured  vision.  ...  If 
I  do  not  see  her  again  I  shall  think  I  am  going 
mad.  .  .  .  If  I  do  not  see  her  again  I  shall 
certainly  go  mad.  .  .  .  How  sweet  that 
sounds,  '  Nuestra  Senora  de  las  Aguas '  .  .  . 
Ave,  Ave,  Maria  ! 

"June  i  yth. — Five  days  of  vain  search,  .  .  . 
an  eternity  !  .  .  .  I  am  in  doubt,  nervous, 
irritable,  possibly  dyspeptic.  I  am  wearying  of 
Don  Pablo  and  Dona  Manolita  and  their  inces 
sant  chatter,  and  of  the  inn  of  the  Three  Pearls, 
and  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  understand  what 
Concepcion  was  conceived  for.  ...  I  shall 
drink  a  bottle  of  Don  Pablo's  wine  before  going 
to  bed  (it  is  good  wine  ;  I  wonder  where  the  old 
rascal  stole  it?). 

"June  2Oth. — No,  I  am  not  mad,  nor  dream 
ing,  nor  calling  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep  which 
do  not  come  when  I  do  call.  She  is  as  real  as 
anything  in  life,  this  lady  of  the  waters  !  .  .  . 


The  Water  Lady  77 

I  saw  it,  her,  yes,  her,  again  to-day,  moving 
amidst  the  long,  tremulous  algse.  She  saw  me 
and  waved  her  hands,  calling.  Again  I  sprang 
forward,  again  she  vanished,  melting  into  the 
deep  shadows. 

"June  22d. — I  must  leave  this  place,  if  I  have  a 
care  for  my  own  good.  The  divers  themselves 
are  beginning  to  have  grave  doubts  as  to  my 
sanity.  Why  any  one  should  wish  to  dive  day 
after  day,  and  not  bring  up  a  single  oyster,  is 
beyond  the  understanding  of  these  folk.  I  see 
old  Pacheco  in  deep  converse  with  the  rest, 
marking  his  talk  with  shrugs  and  sharp  gestures. 
Perhaps  they  think  I  am  searching  for  the  great 
pearl.  They  are  not  far  wrong.  .  .  .  But 
this  thing,  be  it  woman  or  devil,  shall  mock  me 
no  longer.  .  .  .  To-morrow  I  will  sail  across 
the  gulf,  in  Pepe's  fishing  boat.  .  .  .  Per 
haps  afterwards  I  can  make  something  of  this 
that  will  be  worth  reading.  .  .  .  We  write 
with  our  own  blood  .  .  . 

"June  23d. — It  is  too  hot  to  travel  to-day,  and 


78  The  Water  Lady 

there  is  no  wind  to  blow  us  across  the  gulf.  So 
I  sit  in  the  patio  and  watch  Dona  Manolita  roll 
ing  about,  and  listen  to  snatches  of  her  gossip, 
wherein  the  Holy  Virgin  is  much  mixed  with  the 
price  of  onions  and  the  depravity  of  chickens. 
The  big  square  of  sunlight  moved  over  the  patio 
and  I  recked  naught  of  it,  until  at  three  the  bell 
in  the  cathedral  roared  more  loudly  than  usual. 

"'Dios  de  mi  alma!'  exclaimed  the  stout 
hostess.  '  Tis  three  already,  and  I  not  dressed  ! ' 

"  '  What  is  it,  Madrecita  ?  '  I  inquired  lazily. 

"'Ah,  Senor,  'tis  a  special  mass  for  the  lay 
Sisters  of  Saint  Joseph  and  they  do  penance,' 
and  with  this  she  disappeared.  It  is  always  cool 
in  the  shadowy  aisles,  beneath  the  great  stone 
arches,  and  the  smell  of  incense  that  hangs  about 
the  place  is  not  rank  to  me.  I  believe  I  will 
climb  the  hill  and  see  these  sisters  of  St.  Joseph, 
though  I  know  they  are  not  fair  and  they  reek 
of  garlic. 

"Midnight. — I  must  write  it  down  ere  I  sleep 
upon  it,  if  sleep  I  may,  for  rather  than  rest  I 


The  Water  Lady  79 

would  bound  out  there  in  the  moonlight,  and 
thence  into  the  cool  waters,  and  swim  about 
and  splash,  telling  my  joy  to  the  night  birds  and 
scaly  fish,  shrieking  my  love  to  the  moon.  But 
write  this  I  must,  quietly,  coherently.  So,  then, 
I  went  up  to  the  cathedral,  along  the  stone-paved 
calzada,  verily  a  via  cruets  to  tender  feet.  From 
under  the  arched  door  came  the  music  of  the 
mass,  heavily,  but  thinning  out  in  the  open  air. 
Cool  within  and  dark  by  contrast,  the  thick 
shadows  flecked  with  the  flames  of  candles,  the 
air  heavy  with  incense  that  one  smelled  and 
pasted.  The  gold  and  tinsel  upon  the  altar 
glittered,  and  the  white-robed  priest  genuflexed, 
turned,  bowed  ;  the  bell  tinkled  ;  the  boys 
swung  the  censers  ;  above  all  gleamed  the  cross, 
stella  marts  vitce. 

"The  sisters  of  Saint  Joseph  were  kneeling 
upon  the  stone  pavement,  clad  in  long  black 
robes  that  fell  to  their  feet,  with  cowls  that 
covered  head  and  face.  On  their  backs,  sus 
pended  by  broad  red  ribbon  passing  over  either 


8o  The  Water  Lady 

shoulder,  were  illuminated  pictures  of  Saint 
Joseph  himself,  duly  blessed.  All  these  maids 
and  matrons  moved  about  upon  their  knees, 
crossed,  bowed  and  murmured,  rosary  in  hand. 
"  'Dominus  vobiscum.  Ite,  missa  est.' 
"  The  priest  turned  toward  them  and  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross ;  the  music  of  the  little  organ 
crept  away  under  the  arches.  Then,  whisper 
ing  Aves  and  counting  their  beads,  the  black- 
robed  sisters  began  moving  around  the  church, 
still  upon  their  knees,  stopping  before  each  small 
altar  and  painted  saint.  The  air  was  sibilant 
with  muttered  invocations  and  heavy  with  the 
smoke  of  liquidamber.  In  the  shadowy  re 
cesses  huddled  the  men  of  the  village,  some 
pious  of  face  and  demeanor,  others  grinning  de 
risively.  I  stood  there,  fascinated  by  the  lights, 
dreaming  of  formless  things,  I  know  not  how 
long.  The  sun,  falling,  shot  level  rays  of  light, 
bands  of  golden  dust,  through  the  western  win 
dows,  when,  as  with  one  accord,  the  women 
stopped,  arose,  and  made  their  way  toward  the 


The  Water  Lady  81 

great  doors  that  led  outward.  The  younger  men 
sprang  forward  to  the  font,  and  as  each  maid 
passed,  well  known,  perhaps,  in  spite  of  cowl, 
gave  holy  water  with  their  finger-tips.  Now 
and  then  a  cowl  was  raised  enough  to  show 
black  sparkling  eyes,  to  tell  something  in  a  look; 
fingers  were  pressed  for  a  rendezvous.  Slowly 
the  church  emptied  until  1  stood  alone,— nay,  not 
yet,  for  an  old  crone,  cloaked  and  hooded  as  the 
others,  bent  double  with  age,  and  leaning  upon 
a  heavy  staff,  came  tottering  toward  me.  An 
impulse,  perhaps  of  courtesy  or  pity,  I  know 
not  what,  moved  me  to  dip  my  fingers  into  the 
font  and  hold  them  out  toward  her.  From  be 
neath  the  black  folds  she  reached  out  a  hand, 
wee  and  wondrous  white,  and  touched  my  fin 
gers.  Then  her  bent  figure  straightened,  the 
staff  dropped  clanging  upon  the  stone  floor. 
With  a  rapid  movement  she  threw  back  the 
cowl,  and  before  me  stood  the  Water  Lady, 
Nuestra  Senora  de  las  Aguas  !  Ave,  Ave, 
Maria  ! 


82  The  Water  Lady 

"  I  felt  akin  to  those  torrents  which,  following 
a  cloudburst,  roll  down  the  sandy  bed  of  an 
arroyo,  carrying  all  before  them.  I  could  have 
seized  her  then  and  there  and  borne  her  off  to  a 
keep,  as  did  the  barons  of  old  when  passion 
lived  and  sang  and  roared  throughout  the  land, 
ere  came  the  tinkling  troubadour  to  tie  the  giant 
in  silken  rhymes.  Mine  !  Not  in  the  green 
depths  of  the  sea,  midst  swaying  algae  and 
tremulous  weeds,  where  breath  of  life  is  not  and 
dimmed  sight  deceives,  but  in  the  glad  sunlight, 
on  firm  earth,  under  the  arching  blue.  I  put  out 
my  hands,  and,  as  she  drew  back  with  a  light 
laugh,  I  seized  her  cloak.  '  No,  no  ! '  she  tim 
orously  pleaded;  'to-morrow,  in  the  sea,  by  the 
Isle  of  the  Sharks,  at  noontide.  Come  to  me 
then.' 

"  Was  this  some  woman's  trick  to  elude  me  ? 
I  grasped  her  cloak  more  firmly. 

"  'You  shall  not  escape  me  again,'  I  cried  in 
desperation. 

"Fool  that  I  was  !     With  a  movement  more 


The  Water  Lady  83 

rapid  than  thought  she  threw  off  her  cloak,  leav 
ing  it  in  my  hands,  and  sped  away  like  a  fright 
ened  deer.  I  cast  aside  the  garment  with  an 
oath  and  followed  her  as  quickly  as  I  could, 
clambering  and  stumbling  over  ancient  chairs 
which  I  could  scarce  see  in  the  shadows;  but  she 
reached  the  other  end  of  the  church  ere  I  could 
seize  her,  and  vanished  within  a  small  door  that 
closed  behind  her.  Before  it  barred  her  from  my 
sight  she  gave  me  a  look,  one  of  mingled  prom 
ise  and  reproach.  I  struck  the  door  with  all  my 
strength,  but  the  heavy  wood  yielded  not  a 
tremor  to  my  blow.  I  would  have  called  her, 
but  I  knew  no  name,  only,  'Our  Lady  of  the 
Waters.' 

"  I  was  still  at  the  door,  fumbling  vainly  for 
some  key  or  bolt  that  might  open  it  to  me,  when 
I  felt  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder.  Turning 
quickly,  I  saw  standing  behind  me  the  old  priest. 
'Why  this  violence  in  the  house  of  God,  my 
son  ?'  he  said  sternly,  but  not  unkindly. 

"'A  person  passed   that  way,   father,'  I  an- 


84  The  Water  Lady 

swered,  not  a  little  embarrassed,  'and  I  would 
have  followed.' 

"  'And  hadst  thou  then  the  right  to  follow?' 
There  was  a  look  of  quiet  amusement  in  the  old 
man's  eyes  that  told  me  he  knew,  or  perchance 
guessed,  the  object  of  my  pursuit. 

"'I  know  not,  father,'  I  answered.  'What 
is  right  ? ' 

"  'Ask  that  question  of  one  wiser  than  I  am/ 
said  the  priest,  his  face  clouding  in  doubt,  and 
folding  his  hands  beneath  his  robe  he  turned 
away  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the  sacristy. 

"I  ran  out  of  the  church  by  the  great  doors  in 
front  and  looked  down  the  stony  calzada  which 
led  to  the  town,  thinking  perchance  I  might 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  blue-robed  figure  in  the 
golden  haze  of  the  setting  sun.  But  no  !  noth 
ing  ;  only  old  Pepe  Huarto,  the  pearl  diver, 
climbing  wearily  up,  chewing  a  piece  of  'sparto 
grass. 

"'Pepe,'  I  exclaimed,  'hast  thou  seen  any 
one  come  out  of  the  church  ?' 


The  Water  Lady  85 

"  'When,  Senor?'  he  inquired,  staring  stupidly 
at  me. 

"  'Just  now,  a  moment  ago,  a  woman/ 

"  'Si,  Don  Fernando,  a  woman  came  out  of  the 
sacristy  door  on  the  left  there,  and  fled  as  if  the 
devil  were  after  her — or  the  priest,'  he  added, 
with  a  sly  look. 

"  'And  which  way  did  she  go?'  I  inquired 
eagerly. 

"'That  way,'  he  said  slowly,  pointing  with 
his  finger  to  the  ruins  of  the  old  monastery  more 
than  two  miles  away,  'to  where  she  lives, 

Senor.' 

'  **  •  ' 

"  '  You  know  her,  then,  Pepe  mio  ?' 
"  'I  did  not  look  with  great  care,  Senor,  for 
'twas  no  business  of  mine,  but  I  think,  I  am  sure, 
it  was  the  little  Dolores,  the  daughter  of  the  old 
witch  who  lives  in  the  ruins.' 

"  I  looked  again  in  the  direction  of  the  monas 
tery  and  caught  sight  for  an  instant  only  of  a 
blue  speck  on  the  top  of  a  sand  hill.  I  could  not 
overtake  her  then,  for  surely  she  was  swifter  of 


86  The  Water  Lady 

foot  than  I,  and  I  must  rest  upon  her  promise;  so 
I  seized  Pepe  by  the  arm,  and  with  my  other 
hand  drew  a  Mexican  cigar,  which  I  thrust  into 
his  eager  paws.  '  Come  and  sit  by  me  here, 
Pepe,'  and  I  led  him  to  a  stone  seat  near  the 
church,  from  whence  I  could  see  the  ruins,  black 
against  the  setting  sun,  'and  tell  me  all  you 
know  about  Dolores.  To-morrow  you  shall 
drink  the  best  bottle  of  wine  that  El  Perezoso  has 
in  the  fonda.' 

"'Well,  then,  Don  Fernando,'  said  the  old 
man,  lighting  the  cigar  and  drawing  two  or 
three  long  whiffs  of  smoke  into  his  lungs, 
'  there  is  not  much  to  tell.  It  is  this  way. 
Pedro  Guasta,  whom  I  knew  as  well  as  any  one 
knew  him,  and  that  is  not  much,  was  a  diver 
like  the  rest  of  us.  He  was  not  born  here,  but 
came  somewhere  from  the  East,  perhaps  from 
Sonora  or  Chihuahua,  quien  sabe  ?  He  could 
read  books  and  could  talk  better  than  the  padre, 
when  he  talked  at  all,  which  was  seldom. 
When  he  came  here  he  brought  with  him  his 


The  Water  Lady  87 

wife  and  the  chiquita.  He  took  up  his  residence 
in  the  old  ruins,  and  it  was  said  he  knew  strange 
things  about  the  old  monastery,  the  way  to  un 
derground  dungeons,  and  had  found  treasures 
there,  though,  for  a  truth,  he  never  showed  signs 
of  having  either  silver  or  gold.  He  was  poor  as 
the  rest  of  us,  eating  only  to  his  fill  when  he 
brought  in  a  pearl  to  the  father  of  Don  Pablo 
Perez,  who  was  a  robber  of  the  poor,  Senor,  and 
paid  the  men  but  a  tenth  of  the  value  of  their 
finds,  till  the  saints  in  paradise  grew  weary  of  it 
and  let  the  devil  take  him  one  night  to  hell. 
This  father  of  Don  Pablo ' 

"  'Never  mind  him,  Pepe,'  I  interrupted,  'go 
on  with  Guasta.' 

"  '  Bueno,  bueno,  Senor.  Well,  a  few  years 
ago  Guasta  died  of  the  fever,  or  of  something  else, 
and  was  not  buried  in  holy  ground.  He  left  his 
widow  and  the  chiquita  Dolores  to  get  along  as 
best  they  could,  and  the  saints  only  know  how 
they  do  it,  though  now  and  then  the  old  witch 
brings  in  a  pearl  and  trades  it  with  Don  Pablo, 


88  The  Water  Lady 

who  is  more  of  a  thief  than  his  father.  It  is  a 
rare  thing  that  one  sees  Dolores  about  the  town. 
She  is  more  beautiful  than  the  Virgin  over  the 
altar,  but  the  young  men  about  here  are  afraid 
of  her,  I  know  not  why.' 

"  Here  Pepe  stopped  and  seemed  to  be  consid 
ering  if  there  were  anything  more  of  interest  he 
could  tell.  'They  say,  Don  Fernando/  he 
added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  '  that  the  old 
monks  built  a  passage  way  under  the  sea  from 
the  monastery  to  the  Isle  of  Los  Tiburones,'  and 
he  pointed  to  the  green  blot  that  lay  upon  the 
water  below  us,  like  an  emerald  set  in  turquoise. 

"'It  is  a  thing  the  ancestors  tell  (cosas  de 
abuelos),  and  I  do  not  tell  you  that  it  is  true,  Don 
Fernando.' 

"  I  strained  my  eyes  again  in  the  direction  of 
the  monastery  and  thought  I  saw  the  blue  speck 
again  crossing  the  space  of  white  sand  that  lay 
before  the  gray  walls.  Old  Pepe,  seeing  that  I 
cared  to  ask  him  nothing  more,  arose,  and  doff 
ing  his  hat,  said:  '  Hasta  manana,  Seffor.' 


The  Water  Lady  89 

"  '  Hasta  manana,  Pepe,'  I  answered,  'and  do 
not  forget  the  bottle  of  wine  at  the  fonda.'  .  .  . 

" Hasta  manana!  How  will  I  live  till  to-mor 
row  ?  Dolores  !  thy  sweet  face  will  haunt  my 
dreams,  should  I  sleep  this  night.  What  man 
ner  of  strange  child  art  thou,  Dolores,  who  hast 
been  cast  among  these  poor  folk  ?  I  will  meet 
her  to-morrow,  in  the  green  waters,  amidst  the 
swaying  algse  and  the  tremulous  reeds.  .  .  . 

"June  25th.  There  are  chapters  in  men's  lives 
that  are  closed  and  sealed  with  a  seal,  that  they 
may  not  be  read  by  mortals.  Some  of  these  are 
written  by  pens  of  iron  dipped  in  blood,  others 
by  quills  of  gold  inked  in  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and 
the  reading  thereof  aloud  is  like  the  murmur  of 
waters  passing  over  round  pebbles.  The  music 
of  her  voice  is  still  in  my  ears  and  the  touch  of 
her  kisses  is  yet  upon  my  lips.  In  these  moments 
time  and  space  were  not,  and  the  pain-mingled 
sands  of  life  stopped  running  through  the  glass 
of  eternity.  (Has  it  ever  been  so  with  you,  O 
brother  ?)  .  .  . 


9o  The  Water  Lady 

"  It  was  near  noon  when  I  rowed  out  to  the 
Isle  of  the  Sharks,  a  light  breeze  ruffling  the  water 
into  glinting  lines.  What  ails  thee,  Pacheco? 
Bend  to  thy  paddle,  man.  Are  the  hinges  of  thy 
arms  and  knees  growing  rusty  with  age  ?  .  .  . 
I  needed  not  the  old  man's  help  to  adjust  the 
weights  to  my  feet.  .  .  .  We  had  cast 
anchor  by  the  Isle  of  the  Sharks,  a  score  of 
yards  from  the  shore,  at  the  place  where  I  had 
first  met  her.  ...  In  a  moment  I  was  ready 
and  had  been  lowered  into  the  cool  water  and 
sped  down  into  its  opalescent  depths.  Once 
upon  the  hard  white  sand  I  looked  about  me, 
peering  eagerly  into  the  shadows,  making  my 
way  carefully  but  rapidly  along  one  of  the  paths 
that  seemed  to  lead  toward  the  rocky  barrier  that 
supported  the  green  isle.  I  soon  saw  her  com 
ing,  gliding  toward  me,  cleaving  the  water  like 
a  fish.  She  took  my  outstretched  hand  in  hers. 
At  that  instant,  although  it  seemed  to  me  I  had 
scarce  been  half  my  usual  time  beneath  the  sea, 
my  lips  and  lungs  gave  way  and  bubbles  passed 


The  Water  Lady  91 

before  my  eyes.  My  sight  grew  dim,  there 
was  a  strange  drumming  in  my  ears,  I  was 
moving  rapidly  through  the  water  .  .  . 
there  was  a  sense  of  suffocation,  blinding  light 
ning  flashed  before  my  eyes.  Then  a  blank. 
.  .  .  God  !  what  pain !  My  chest  seemed 
to  be  rent  asunder,  and  pangs  beyond  human 
endurance  shot  through  every  limb  as  if  I  had 
been  stretched  upon  the  rack.  .  .  .  This 
is  what  they  call  the  agony  of  death,  thought 
I,  the  spirit  tearing  itself  from  the  body 
.  .  .  now  it  is  over.  ...  I  am  resting 
quietly,  peacefully,  but  I  am  so  tired.  .  .  . 
What  a  delicate  tracery  !  Some  artist  of  won 
drous  skill  has  painted  flowers  and  the  leaves  of 
trees  on  glass,  through  which  one  sees  the  blue 
sky  and  an  exquisite  imitation  of  fleecy  clouds 
.  .  .  and  the  clouds  are  moving  .  .  . 
something  is  put  to  my  lips  and  I  feel  that  I  am 
drinking.  How  curious  that  one  should  drink 
when  one  is  dead,  and  yet  it  seems  as  if  I  had  a 
body  and  new  life  were  thrilling  through 


92  The  Water  Lady 

it.  ...  Now  the  sky  and  the  clouds,  the 
leaves  and  the  flowers,  fade  away,  and  I  am 
sleeping  .  .  .  am  I  dreaming?  .  .  .  I 
know  that  face,  but  cannot  think  where  I  have 
seen  it  before  .  .  .  it  is  a  beautiful  face,  com 
ing  between  me  and  the  sky,  a  woman's  face, 
with  soft,  sweet,  tender  eyes  that  are  looking 
into  mine.  .  .  .  Why  can  I  not  remember 
.  .  .  it  seems  important  that  I  should.  .  .  . 
Those  are  wonderful  eyes  !  I  can  trace  the 
perfect  arch  of  the  dark  brow  upon  the  white 
skin  ;  long  black  hair  hangs  down  and  brushes 
against  my  face  ;  the  red  lips,  half  parted,  show 
ing  two  rows  of  even  white  teeth  ...  if 
I  could  only  move  now  I  could  touch  those  lips, 
but  I  am  too  lazy  to  think  it  all  out  and  I  don't 
know  how  to  move  .  .  .  bits  of  sunlight 
seem  to  strike  down  through  the  tracery  of 
leaves  and  flowers  upon  her  white  body 
.  „  .  sunshine?  .  .  .  clap,  lap,  lap,  is 
that  sound  ?  .  .  .  water  ?  .  .  .  the  sea  ! 
old  Pacheco  ?  «  the  boat  ! 


The  Water  Lady  93 

.     .     .     the  wheel  of   memory  begins  to  turn 
again     .     .     .     Dolores! 

"  My  lips  move  at  this  word,  I  speak  it  aloud  ; 
and  the  sweet  eyes  smile,  the  red  lips  come 
down  to  me  and  press  my  own.  The  tide  of  life 
flows  back,  bounding. 

"The  sun  is  slanting  over  the  waters.  In 
the  boat  sits  old  Pacheco,  a  bit  of  rope  in 
his  hand,  gazing  about  him  and  waiting,  the 
tears  streaming  down  his  tanned  and  weather- 
beaten  cheeks.  He's  muttering  something  to 
himself  .  .  .  prayers  for  the  soul  of  Don 
Fernando  ?  Hours  have  passed  and  he  is  still 
waiting  for  his  master  to  come  up  from  the 
deep  sea  ;  for  his  master,  who  is  upon  the  Isle 
of  the  Sharks,  looking  at  him  through  the  thick 
foliage.  .  .  .  We  peer  at  him  together, 
laughing  pityingly,  but  softly,  for  the  stillness 
of  eventide  is  upon  the  water  and  the  slightest 
sound  could  be  heard  afar  off.  We  stand  upon 
that  bank  up  which  Dolores,  with  almost  super- 


94  The  Water  Lady 

human  strength,  had  dragged  me,  fainting, 
drowning,  but  a  few  hours  before.  ...  A 
last  embrace  .  .  .  only  until  to-morrow,  hasta 
manana  .  .  .  and  I  drop  quietly  into  the  water 
and  swim  under  the  leafy  branches  that  bend 
over  till  they  touch  the  waves,  and  then  out  to 
the  boat.  Pacheco  does  not  see  me  until  I  am 
almost  upon  him.  He  hears  me,  turns,  falls  to 
trembling,  and  crosses  himself;  gives  a  cry  of  min 
gled  fear,  astonishment,  and  delight;  then  man 
ages,  not  without  difficulty,  to  drag  me  into  the 
boat.  I  cut  short  his  prayers  and  explanations. 

"  '  Pacheco,'  I  exclaim,  '  you  will  swear  to  me 
by  the  memory  of  your  mother  and  the  most 
holy  Virgin  that  you  will  say  nothing  of  this, 
and  I  will  give  you  fifty  pesos  in  silver  to  buy  a 
dozen  donkeys  for  your  son  to  carry  goods  up 
into  Sonora.' 

"He  swore  it,  and  I  think  the  old  man  will 
keep  his  word.  Dolores  !  " 

The  remaining  pages  of  the  diary  were  quite 


The  Water  Lady  95 

illegible.  Either  the  pencil  of  the  writer  had 
needed  sharpening  or  the  paper  had  refused  to 
be  marked  by  its  point. 

Don  Vicente  closed  the  little  book,  and  while 
he  was  pondering  that  which  he  had  read,  Don 
Pablo  approached  softly.  He  noted  that  his 
esteemed  friend  was  solemn,  even  triste,  muy 
triste,  and  knowing  but  one  panacea  for  sorrow, 
he  waddled  off  and  returned  in  a  moment  with  a 
fresh  bottle  of  tequila  and  two  glasses,  all  of 
which  he  compassionately,  reverently,  placed  in 
front  of  his  honored  guest. 

Mechanically  the  hand  of  Don  Vicente  took  the 
bottle  and  poured  a  glassful  of  the  transparent 
liquor.  He  was  old  and  worldly-wise,  was  Don 
Vicente,  and  he  sighed  as  he  lifted  the  glass  to 
his  lips,  "Pretty,  very  pretty,  but  how  long  will 
it  last?" 


The    Mysterious    Disappearance    of    Mrs. 
T.    Tompkins    Smith 


"  Passion  rings  loud  in  those 
that  are  of  the  hue  of  gold." 


The 

Mysterious 
Disappearance 
of  Mrs.  T. 
Tompkins  Smith 

rpHE  train  pulled  out  of  the  frontier  station 
with  a  clanging  of  iron,  midst  a  clamor 
of  voices,  both  sounds  blending  and  vanishing, 
as  it  gathered  headway,  into  the  smooth  hum  of 
the  speeding  wheels.  The  sun,  scarce  risen 
above  the  horizon,  marked  black  blotches  of 
shadow  upon  the  white  arid  plain  just  under 
the  writhing  cactus  and  stunted  palms,  though 
there  was  yet  in  the  air  something  of  the  cool 
breezes  of  the  night. 

Straight  as  twin  arrows  cast  from  a  single 
bow,  the  two  lines  of  shining  steel  converged 
till  they  met  the  sky,  far  to  the  south,  then  sped 


ioo  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

on  till  they  reached  the  White  City,  fetters  of 
conquest  upon  the  desert.  Puffs  of  wind  whirled 
the  dust  into  inverted  pyramids,  and  sent  them 
spinning  away  in  fantastic  dance. 

The  conductor  entered  the  third-class  car, 
where  he  began  lustily  calling  for  "boletos!" 
The  half-sleeping,  blanketed  Mexicans,  lazily  be 
stirred  themselves  to  drag  out  the  bits  of  paper 
entitling  them  to  ride  on  the  iron  way.  Thence 
he  passed  into  the  Pullman,  assuming  an  expres 
sion  of  easy  and  familiar  joviality.  It  was  "tick 
ets,  please,"  here — the  English  language  and 
politeness  corresponding  to  first  class. 

"Ah!  Mrs.  Tibbins,  glad  to  see  you  back 
again,"  he  said,  as  he  registered  a  pass  tendered 
by  an  overdressed  and  somewhat  vulgar  woman 
of  the  common  American  type.  "  Been  havin'  a 
good  time  in  the  States  ?" 

The  woman  smirked. 

"Well,  I  should  say  !"  she  remarked,  putting 
her  pass  back  into  a  red  wallet.  "I  tell  you, 
Mr.  Crosby,  it  does  a  power  of  good  to  one  to 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  101 

get  a  breath  of  fresh  livin'  air  after  bein'  down  to 
Mexico  for  four  years.  Gracious  !  I  have  had 
enough  of  this  place,  I  have." 

"Might  be  worse  though,"  sighed  Mr.  Crosby, 
half  resenting  the  remark  and  half  sympathizing 
with  the  sentiment,  for  he  had  lived  in  Mexico 
for  many  years.  He  turned  to  the  other  side, 
taking  long  strips  of  red  tourist  tickets  from  two 
elderly  persons,  buried  amid  a  heap  of  baskets 
and  satchels,  and  whose  dress  proclaimed  the 
female  sex. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Myra  Tilden,"  croaked  one  of 
them,  "that's  my  name  written  on  the  ticket. 
I'm  from  Mauchunk,  going  to  do  Mexico." 

"Certainly,  ma'am,"  replied  the  conductor, 
clipping  the  tickets  with  his  punch. 

"Conductor,  when  do  we  get  to  the  dinner 
station?"  groaned  the  other  fossil  as  the  man 
turned  away. 

"One  forty-five." 

"Thanks." 

The  train  was  now  gliding  rapidly  over  the 


io2  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

white  desert  of  caliche.  The  sky,  unflecked  by 
a  single  cloud,  burned  to  a  gray  that  seemed  to 
shimmer  in  waves  of  heat. 

As  the  conductor  approached,  a  young  man 
aroused  himself  sufficiently  from  the  perusal  of  a 
yellow-covered  novel  to  extend  his  ticket,  though 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  book. 

Only  three  more  passengers,  sitting  together 
at  the  end  of  the  car.  As  the  conductor  neared 
them  he  became  more  deferential,  for  there  was 
a  flavor  of  the  stockholder  about  the  men,  and  a 
chic  about  the  dark  blue  costume  of  the  woman, 
that  bespoke  the  upper  circles. 

"Going  through?"  queried  Mr.  Crosby,  pleas 
antly. 

"Yes.  We  are  due  in  the  city  day  after 
to-morrow  night,  are  we  not  ? "  asked  one  of 
the  gentlemen,  hand.ing  two  tickets,  while  the 
other  produced  a  pass. 

"Afternoon,  sir,  at  two  o'clock." 

The  lady  looked  up. 

"Two  days  more  of  this  !"   she  exclaimed, 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  I03 

with  some  impatience  in  her  tone.     "Really, 
Tom,  the  play  is  not  worth  the  candle." 

"My  dear,"  replied  the  person  addressed, 
"you  would  come,  you  know,  though  Mr.  Jarr 
told  you  it  was  a  horrible  trip.  Long,  dusty, 
bad  eating,  and  all  that,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  wearily,  "that's  all  very 
true."  She  opened  her  valise,  and,  taking  there 
from  a  book,  leaned  back  against  the  pillow 
which  the  fee-expecting  negro  porter  had  placed 
behind  her. 

"You'll  excuse  us,  my  dear,  if  we  go  to  the 
smoking-room  for  a  cigar  ?  " 

She  nodded  acquiescence,  without  looking  up, 
and  the  two  men  walked  away. 

Soon  the  book  fell,  and  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins 
Smith  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  window-sill  and 
her  chin  on  her  hand,  gazing  out  at  the  flying 
desert  and  the  distant  gnarled  hills  that  rose 
abrupt,  as  if  man-built.  The  dull  white  was  a 
background  for  her  thoughts  ;  there  were  clouds  of 
dun  dust  too,  whereon  she  could  image  at  her  will. 


104  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

But  they  broke  in  upon  her  reverie.  The 
ancient  female  tourists  had  been  deeply  impressed 
by  the  statement  of  the  young  woman  to  the 
effect  that  she  had  lived  long  in  Mexico,  and 
ventured  questioningly  : 

"  Tough  ?  Well,  I  guess.  Why,  there  ain't  a 
decent  house,  nor  a  stove,  nor  a  chimney  in  the 
whole  city.  Cook  ?  Oh,  yes,  with  charcoal  on 
stones  with  holes  in  them.  Oh,  'tain't  so  hard  ; 
you  get  used  to  it  after  a  while.  Society  ? 
Well,  of  course  I  have  to  go  into  it,  as  I  live 
there.  It  ain't  what  we  have  at  home.  The 
Mexicans  ain't  much  on  society.  Catholics? 
Oh,  yes,  you  just  ought  to  see  the  churches  !  " 

She  rattled  on,  sharp  in  voice,  a  tone  that  cut 
like  the  shrieking  of  a  file. 

Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  would  have  given 
gold  to  stop  her  ;  turned  to  freeze  her  into  silence 
with  a  glance,  encountering  only  her  back,  on 
which  the  icy  shaft  broke  harmless. 

The  lady  resumed  her  position  at  the  window, 
shutting  out  the  voice  by  an  effort  of  the  will, 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  105 

drowning  it  in  the  whirring  of  the  wheels.  She 
thought  of  nothing,  in  the  stupor  of  widely 
strained  eyes,  in  the  gentle  rocking  of  steel 
springs. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  of  a  mirage, 
surely  one  of  those  phantasms  she  had  read 
about,  occurring  in  deserts.  A  gigantic  horse, 
higher  than  the  distant  hills,  bore  toward  her 
with  ponderous  gallop  a  gigantic  rider  whose 
head  scraped  the  skies.  She  noted  every  detail 
of  the  horseman's  costume,  though  the  face  was 
indistinct.  He  wore  leggings  of  brown  leather, 
tight  fitting,  trimmed  with  silver  buttons  adown 
the  sides  ;  a  jacket  of  blue,  faced  with  silver  ;  and 
a  peaked  hat  of  gray,  about  which  curled  a 
golden  cord.  She  could  see  the  embroidered 
saddle-cloth,  the  shining  butts  of  the  pistols  that 
.stuck  out  of  the  holsters,  the  long  machete  that 
swung  by  his  side.  The  rider  was  waving  a 
white  handkerchief,  like  a  scudding  cloud,  fran 
tically  hailing. 

Nearer  came  the  monstrous  forms,  until  the 


io6  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

forefeet  of  the  horse  were  upon  the  very  car,  and, 
oh  ! — Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  gave  a  little  start 
and  the  mirage  vanished,  but  left  a  comparatively 
small  and  very  solid  kernel  of  reality,  for  she 
could  now  see  a  horse  and  rider  of  natural  size, 
and  scarce  a  mile  from  the  train,  galloping  madly 
toward  a  point  somewhat  beyond  it,  as  if  to 
head  it  off. 

Surely  a  man  in  the  desert  was  like  a  castaway 
at  sea,  flying  likewise  a  signal  of  distress.  Mrs. 
T.  Tompkins  Smith  acted  upon  the  impulse. 
"  Conductor  ! " 

"Yes,  ma'am."  The  worthy  put  down  a 
novel  belonging  to  one  of  the  passengers  and 
came  toward  her. 

"There  is  a  man  on  horseback  over  there 
trying  to  stop  the  train."  She  indicated  with 
her  jewelled  finger. 

Mr.  Crosby  looked,  studied  for  a  moment, 
then  seized  the  bell-rope,  pulling  it  steadily 
thrice,  bringing  the  train  to  a  standstill. 

"I'm  sure  that's  Don  Federico  himself!"   he 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  107 

exclaimed  excitedly.  "Lucky  I  saw  him  in 
time  !" 

"Who  is  he,  Mr.  Crosby?"  eagerly  queried 
the  file,  gathering  with  the  ancient  tourists  at 
the  car  window. 

"Well,  he's  a  big  man,  I  can  tell  you,"  vouch 
safed  the  conductor.  "Lives  about  six  hundred 
miles  down  the  road  here.  Has  a  silver  mine 
that  pays  him  millions  a  year,  and  a  regular 
castle  near  the  Nevada  de  Toluca  volcano — 
helped  build  this  road  and  owns  part  of  it." 
This  hastily,  and  he  then  rushed  out  of  the  car 
to  explain  the  signal  to  the  engineer  and  receive 
Don  Federico. 

The  horseman  reined  in  his  panting  animal  at 
the  very  steps  of  the  car  and,  swinging  himself 
from  the  saddle,  proceeded  to  unbuckle  the 
girths,  answering  at  the  same  time  the  saluta 
tions  of  the  conductor  and  porter,  who  had  gath 
ered  officiously  about  him. 

"  Put  this  saddle  in  the  express  car,  this  valise 
in  my  berth.  Get  a  bucket  of  water  for  the 


io8  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

horse."  They  flew  to  execute  his  orders.  The 
animal  having  drained  the  last  drop  of  the 
precious  fluid,  its  owner  gave  it  a  sharp  cut  with 
his  short  riding-whip  and  the  order  "A  casa  !" 
and  the  horse,  now  riderless,  sped  away  over 
the  desert. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Don  Federico.  Take  num 
ber  six.  It's  the  best  section  in  the  car.  Any 
thing  else  we  can  do  for  you,  sir?" 

He  waved  them  away,  taking  off  his  heavy 
Mexican  hat  and  hanging  it  upon  one  of  the 
brass  hooks.  Then  he  turned  to  look  about 
him. 

Now  a  most  singular  thing  occurred.  The 
eyes  of  tall  Don  Federico  fell  upon  Mrs.  T. 
Tompkins  Smith,  who  just  at  that  moment  was 
looking  hard  upon  him,  and  for  a  time  the  two 
stood  as  if  transfixed,  gazing  at  each  other,  mov 
ing  not  outwardly,  but  the  two  hearts  pumping 
blood  at  redoubled  speed. 

The  file,  seeing  it  all,  tittered,  and  broke  the 
spell.  With  long,  quick  stride  Don  Federico 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  109 

walked  down  the  aisle  toward  Mrs.  T.  Tomp 
kins  Smith,  his  hand  extended. 

"Margaret  !  Surely  it  is  you  !"  Then  hesi 
tatingly,  remembering,  "I  beg  pardon — Mrs. — 
eh — Mrs. " 

"T.  Tompkins  Smith."  This  loudly  and 
sonorously,  as  if  revelling  in  Tompkins  and 
glorying  in  Smith  ;  then  she  added,  cordially 
putting  her  hand  in  his  :  "I  knew  you  almost  at 
once,  Fred,  in  spite  of  your  costume  and  tan. 
Have  you  really  become  a  Mexican,  and  are  you 
really  the  great  Don  Federico?"  She  spoke 
quickly,  to  smother  embarrassment.  Her  voice 
trembled,  for  the  past  fell  upon  her  like  an 
avalanche.  In  her  parlor,  at  home,  flanked  by  a 
tea-table  and  bric-a-brac,  buoyed  up  in  a  perfect 
gown,  she  would  have  known  just  the  proper 
things  to  do  and  say  ;  but  here  in  the  desert,  on 
whirring  wheels,  it  took  time  to  adjust  the 
present  to  the  past. 

Don  Federico  gazed  in  admiration  at  the 
woman  he  had  lost.  The  same  form  and  face, 


no  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

splendid  in  their  strength  and  beauty,  the  lines  of 
the  face  a  little  firmer,  more  saddened  perhaps. 
The  calm  eyes,  deep  and  blue  as  a  mountain 
lake,  with  volcanic  possibilities,  the  wealth  of 
brown  hair  knotted  behind  in  careless  fashion. 
Yes,  she  had  changed  but  little,  though  it  was  a 
long  sweep  of  time,  full  of  action  for  him,  and  he 
felt  as  if  the  ages  had  piled  up  against  him. 

She  waved  him  to  the  seat  in  front  of  her  : 
"Tell  me  about  it,  will  you  ?  " 

He  took  no  note  of  the  tone,  only  heeding  the 
words.  The  emotion  of  pleased  surprise  had 
faded,  leaving  bitter  memories  in  bold  relief,  and 
his  voice,  as  he  replied,  was  two-edged  with 
irony.  "I  will  not  say  that  I  do  not  think  it 
would  interest  you  to  know  of  my  past :  how 
plain  Fred  Hawthorne  became  Don  Federico,  in 
what  to  your  eyes  is  rare  and  strange  apparel  ; 
and  there  is  something  romantic  in  picking  a 
man  up  in  the  desert."  He  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  then  back  at  her  face,  which  was 
hardening.  "I  suppose,"  he  continued  pen- 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  m 

sively,  "it  would  all  make  a  very  interesting 
story,  to  be  retailed  as  one  of  your  Mexican 
experiences  to  a  circle  of  admiring  friends  after 
your  return.  But  really,  you  know,  there  is 
hardly  any  legitimate  basis  for  a  display  of  inter 
est  in  my  affairs  on  your  part." 

It  was  a  slap  in  the  face.  She  reddened,  then 
paled.  It  pleased  him  to  know  that  he  had  cut 
deeply.  The  lady  looked  about  her  to  see  if  she 
could  be  overheard.  The  file  and  the  fossils, 
awearied  of  staring  at  the  new-comer  and  his 
companion,  had  assembled  at  the  other  end  of 
the  car  and,  heads  together,  were  deep  in  words. 
Mr.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  and  his  companion,  Mr. 
Jarr,  were  in  the  smoking  compartment,  compar 
ing  views  on  the  subject  of  silver  and  exchange. 
Then  she  turned  again  to  Don  Federico,  and  burst 
forth  like  a  torrent: 

"There  is  an  Italian  proverb,  Mr.  Hawthorne, 
which  says  that  the  undeserved  thrust  glides 
harmless  from  the  shield.  Somehow,  out  here, 
the  forced  and  the  artificial  jar  on  one.  Can't 


ii2  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

we  be  truthful  in  the  desert  ?  It  seems  to  me  I 
can.  According  to  all  precedent  I  should  hate 
you,  I  suppose,  and  show  my  scorn  for  you  in 
some  tragic  manner,  and  all  that  ;  but  I  can't, 
Fred.  Now  I  have  put  away  the  shield,  strike 
again." 

The  man's  mouth  and  eyes,  curved  in  sarcasm, 
now  lifted  in  wonderment. 

"  Hate  me,  Margaret  ;  you  hate  me  !  What  a 
strange  twisting  of  things  !  I,  who  worshipped 
you  as  I  am  sure  no  man  ever  worshipped  a 
woman  !  Hate  me  because  you  dismissed  me 
like  a  cur  from  your  doorstep  ?  Ah  !  this  is  a 
strange  world." 

He  smiled  bitterly.  He,  too,  had  thrown  away 
the  shield,  and  they  stood  defenceless,  face  to  face. 

She  bent  over,  seeking  his  eyes,  a  little  pained 
smile  upon  her  lips. 

"Oh,  Fred  !  I  thought  we  were  to  be  truth 
ful  !  We  have  but  a  few  minutes  to  talk  here, 
after  seven  years  of  silence.  Could  anyone 
injure  a  woman  more  than  you  did  me  ?  " 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  113 

His  wonderment  grew. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Margaret,  that  you 
never  wrote  the  letter  which  struck  me  down 
like  a  felled  ox,  breaking  our  engagement,  re 
questing  me  never  to  see  you  again,  and 
announcing  that  you  were  to  marry  T. — eh — 
T.— T.- 

"  T.  Tompkins  Smith.  Oh  !  yes.  I  wrote 
the  letter,  Fred  ;  there  is  nothing  so  melodra 
matic  in  all  this  as  a  forged  letter.  I  could  not 
have  done  otherwise,  very  well,  as  you  should 
admit,  though,"  she  added  thoughtfully,  "I 
might  have  left  out  the  reference  to  T. — T. — 
T. " 

"  Tompkins  Smith  !  " 

He,  too,  bent  over,  and  his  words  came  like 
rifle-shots. 

"In  God's  name,  then,  how  dare  you  look  me 
in  the  face  ?  I  was  poor,  he  rich  !  But  you 
knew  of  my  poverty  long  before  that,  and  rich 
men  were  buzzing  about  you  like  bees  around  a 
pot  of  honey.  Such  action  would  not  have  sur- 

8 


n4  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

prised  me  on  the  part  of  the  average  woman ; 
but  you,  Margaret — I  had  idealized  you  so  much 
above  the  rest  !  You  were  to  me  the  goddess 
whose  skirts  would  have  been  soiled  at  the  touch 
of  others  of  your  sex " 

It  was  the  woman's  turn  for  wonderment, 
though  her  eyes  flashed  with  indignation.  "Do 
you  really  mean  to  say,  Fred  Hawthorne,  that 
you  do  not  know  my  reason  for  that  letter  ?  Do 
you  believe  it  was  on  account  of  your  poverty  or 
his  wealth "  Her  wrath  strangled  speech. 

"I  give  you  my  word,  Margaret,  that  I  know 
of  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  that  could  have 
given  you  cause  to  reproach  me.  I  thought  for 
a  moment  some  slander  had  been  told  you,  but 
you  were  not  the  woman  to  believe  the  tales  of 
others.  I  knew  you  too  well,  or  thought  I  did, 
to  even  consider  that  possibility." 

She  leaned  back  with  a  gesture  of  weariness. 

"I  never  believed  any  tales  of  others.  I 
thought  you  knew,  must  have  known,  that  I 
saw  you."  She  stopped,  as  if  to  see  over  again 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  115 

that  which  she  was  about  to  tell.  "It  was 
the  last  time  we  met,  the  night  of  the  Van 
Steen  ball.  You  remember  it,  Fred  ?  You 
had  left  me  only  an  hour  before  I  arrived  there, 
and  there  was  no  prouder,  happier  woman  than 
I  in  all  that  crush.  I  had  put  on  my  best  frock 
and  all  my  jewels,  and  was  eager  for  men  to 
say  :  '  See  how  beautiful  she  is  ;  she  belongs  to 
him.'  You  were  there,  Fred,  head  and  shoulders 
above  other  men,  and  I  was  glad  I  looked  well 
for  your  sake.  Hardly  an  hour  of  that  intoxica 
tion  for  me,  for  it  was  not  eleven  o'clock  when  I 
saw  you  in  that  little  alcove  with  Mrs.  Stanhope 
— saw  it  all,  Fred.  No,  don't  interrupt  me." 
She  held  up  her  hand  to  silence  him.  "That 
moment  I  fell  from  happiness  to  despair.  I  suf 
fered  in  an  instant  enough  for  a  lifetime.  It  was 
only  an  hour  after  that  I  accepted  Mr.  Smith  as  I 
would  have  done  a  pistol  bullet." 

She  paused  a  moment,  closing  her  red  lips 
tightly,  for  awakened  memory  seared  a  scarce 
healed  wound.  The  file  was  still  dogmatizing, 


n6  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

waving  her  hands,  the  fossils  gaping  it  in,  nudg 
ing,  squeaking  with  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  continued:  "No, 
Fred,  I  did  not  pine  away,  allow  the  worm  to 
feed  upon  the  damask  of  my  cheek,  and  all  that. 
I  love  life  as  I  think  people  of  flesh,  blood,  thews 
and  sinews  do,  and  I  shall  probably  succeed  in 
staggering  through  what  there  is  left  to  me  of  it 
with  fair  success,  as  the  world  goes.  But  that 
night,  Fred,  all  the  light  went  out  of  it,  and  since 
then  it  has  been  of  the  treadmill  order." 

The  man  had  listened,  bent  over,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  floor.  She  could  scarce  see  his 
face,  but  he  bit  his  mustache,  and  his  bronzed, 
powerful  fingers  twisted  one  into  the  other  as  if 
in  pain.  He  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  then 
looked  up. 

"It  is  all  gone  by  now,  Margaret,"  he  said 
slowly,  like  a  man  wearied  of  a  long  race,  "and 
regrets  are  useless.  We  must  live  out  our  lives 
on  the  lines  that  we  ourselves  have  unwittingly 
marked  out,  or  perhaps  a  mischievous  fate  has 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  117 

marked  for  us.  It's  just  as  well  I  should  tell  you 
what  you  saw.  It  may  now  do  a  little  good 
that  we  should  part  with  a  better  opinion  of  each 
other.  There  was  fault  of  mine  in  that  episode, 
though,  God  knows,  no  meant  lack  of  fealty  to 
you." 

He  stopped,  for  the  train  was  slowing  up  for  a 
way  station  in  the  desert,  and  when  it  stood  still 
a  dozen  brown  and  dirty  hands,  eloquent  in 
beggary,  were  thrust  up  to  the  open  window  at 
which  he  sat,  and  as  many  voices  whined  :  "  Un 
centavito,  senor  ;  por  Dios,  senorita,  un  centa- 
vito." 

Angered  at  the  interruption,  he  sent  them  to 
the  devil  in  good  Spanish  ;  but  some  one  of 
them  had  recognized  him,  and  the  lazzaroni 
exploded  in  a  series  of  "  Viva  Don  Federico  !" 
He  stopped  their  mouths  with  a  handful  of  silver 
cast  among  them,  and  then  the  train  drew  on 
again. 

"You  see,"  he  resumed  in  the  same  tone, 
when  the  wheels  had  gathered  headway  enough 


n8  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

to  drown  his  voice  from  itching  ears,  "I  met 
Nellie  Stanhope  two  years  before  I  knew  you. 
It  was  one  of  those  liaisons  a  man  in  society 
drifts  into  somehow,  and  then  is  too  weak  or 
does  not  know  how  to  get  out  of.  So  it  went 
along  till  I  met  you.  Well,  you  see  you  were 
the  only  love  of  my  life,  too,  Margaret,  and  it 
did  not  take  me  long  to  tell  her  that  she  and  I 
must  part.  I  suppose  I  talked  a  deal  of  rot  to 
the  poor  woman  about  her  future  and  her  hus 
band,  and  all  that  for  which  I  ought  to  have 
been  horsewhipped  ;  but  I  did  not  realize  it  then, 
and  said  the  only  thing  that  occurred  to  me,  not 
wishing  to  madden  her  by  telling  her  I  cared  for 
someone  else.  She  took  it,  though,  and  I  did 
not  see  her  again  for  many  months  until  the 
night  of  Van  Steen's  ball.  Then  she  cornered 
me  in  the  alcove  and  cursed  me  for  half  an  hour, 
threatening  to  scream  and  cause  a  scandal  if  I 
left.  Suddenly  she  turned,  threw  both  arms 
around  my  neck,  and  kissed  me.  Now  that  I 
know  you  were  there,  I  think  she  saw  you  and 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  119 

did  it  purposely.  I  left  her,  however,  imme 
diately,  and  sought  you  everywhere  ;  finally, 
they  told  me  you  had  gone  home  with  your 
mother  and  Tom  Smith.  The  next  morning 
I  got  your  letter.  I  could  not  stay  in  New 
York  any  longer,  so  turned  into  money  what 
little  I  had,  pulled  up  stakes  and  came  out  here, 
where  I  have  realized  the  French  proverb,  mal- 
heureux  en  amour,  heureux  au  jeu" 

He  stopped.  They  understood  each  other 
now.  The  story  was  older  than  the  pyramids. 
She  knew  he  spoke  the  truth.  Her  fingers, 
clasped  about  the  arm  of  the  seat,  sank  into  the 
velvet,  and  two  tears,  starting  from  the  blue 
eyes,  rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks  and  fell 
upon  her  other  hand  that  lay  upon  her  knee.  The 
man  knocked  a  book  from  the  seat  beside  him 
to  the  floor,  and  stooping  low  to  pick  it  up, 
pressed  his  lips  to  this  hand.  She  did  not  draw 
it  away,  rather  pushed  it  to  him.  Twas  little 
enough,  that  kiss. 

A  moment  later  Mr.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  and 


120  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

Mr.  Jarr  came  out  of  the  smoking-room,  and 
the  surprise  of  the  former  was  not  small  when 
he  saw  his  wife  in  deep  converse  with  the  man 
in  Mexican  dress. 

Introductions  solved  the  puzzle. 

"My  husband — Mr.  Frederick  Hawthorne,  an 
old  friend  of  mine,  formerly  of  New  York.  Mr. 
Jarr — Mr.  Hawthorne." 

The  men  shook  hands,  Mr.  Smith  very  cor 
dially. 

"Why,  of  course  I  remember  you.  Fuller  & 
Hawthorne,  on  Broad  Street.  Fuller  was  a 
member  of  the  Exchange.  Poor  fellow,  went 
down  with  Hutch's  grain  corner  last  year.  Glad 
to  see  you  again.  How  long  have  you  been 
down  here?" 

Hawthorne  entered  easily  into  explanations. 
Told  of  his  lucky  strike  in  the  Sierra  Mojada. 
Bought  out  a  worthless  mine  for  a  song  and 
struck  pay  ore  three  days  afterward,  two  hun 
dred  ounces  silver  to  the  ton.  Yes,  lead  ores, 
of  course.  Got  into  this  railroad  in  the  sub- 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  121 

cellar,  and  turned  over  his  share  of  the  deal  while 
the  boom  lasted.  And  so  on.  Made  something 
out  of  it. 

T.  Tompkins  Smith's  eyes  glistened  ;  he  struck 
his  knee  with  the  palm  of  his  hand  in  emphatic 
approval.  Mr.  Jarr  smiled,  much  interested. 
The  woman  looked  at  the  speaker,  fascinated, 
thinking,  hearing  little  of  what  he  said.  He  was 
to  her  as  some  bronzed  giant,  telling  of  battles 
with  Titans,  these  conquered.  Would  she  had 
stood  with  him,  bearing  the  brunt  !  (Some 
woman  had,  probably,  for  the  time.)  She  was 
conscious  of  pain  now.  Bah  !  Why  worry  over 
the  past,  irrevocable  ?  The  blood  started  again, 
coursing  more  quickly,  flaming.  How  lucky 
people  cannot  read  your  thoughts.  Do  other 
women  think  such  things  ?  .  .  . 

The  conductor  traversed  and  interrupted,  just 
as  the  air-brakes  were  throttling  the  wheels, 
"Excuse  me,  dinner  station.  We  stop  here 
thirty  minutes." 

The  station  baked  in  a  glare  of  heat.     They 


122  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

alighted  from  the  car,  Don  Federico  helping  Mrs. 
Smith,  and  entered  the  sultry  dining-room.  He 
had  telegraphed  ahead,  as  usual,  for  a  special 
dinner,  and  dividing  it  with  the  others,  these 
fared  less  badly  than  otherwise  they  would  have 
done.  Two  bottles  of  Don  Federico's  wine, 
from  the  private  stock  kept  for  him  by  the  sta 
tion  master,  filled  the  measure  of  T.  Tompkins 
Smith's  happiness  to  the  brim.  The  worthy 
stock  broker  held  the  ruby-colored  Lafitte  to  the 
light,  smelled  it,  tasted  it  reverently.  "You 
couldn't  buy  this  in  New  York  for  money,"  he 
exclaimed,  oracularly.  Then  turning  to  Don 
Federico  and  holding  up  his  glass  :  "  What  is  it 
the  Mexicans  say  ?  Salood  ?  " 

"Salud."  Don  Federico  bowed  and  emptied 
his  glass.  Mr.  Jarr  remarked  that  he  never 
could  get  that  soft  sound  of  the  Spanish  final  "d," 
though  he  could  speak  the  language  well  enough 
to  get  along.  Mrs.  Smith  had  a  fair  knowledge 
of  French  and  German,  but  wished  she  knew 
Spanish — had  heard  there  were  some  exquisite 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  I2$ 

things  in  modern  Spanish  literature.  A  friend  of 
hers  had  told  her  that  Emilia  Pardo  Bazan  was 
the  greatest  living  woman  writer. 

The  conductor  again,  smiling  and  wiping  his 
mouth:  "Don't  hurry,  ladies  and  gentlemen; 
plenty  of  time." 

The  meal  over,  they  strolled  out  upon  the  plat 
form,  instantly  surrounded  by  beggars,  pleading, 
importunate,  bravadoing  hideous  deformities. 
Mrs.  Smith,  shuddering,  peremptorily  ordered 
her  husband  to  give  a  silver  dollar  to  a  hag  clad 
in  a  remnant  of  calico,  holding  a  shrunken  child 
to  shrunken  breasts.  He  complied,  grumbling  : 
"If  these  people  would  only  work — " 

"What  at  ?  "  snapped  Don  Federico. 

A  correct  answer  would  have  solved  a  ques 
tion  bothering  the  statesmen  of  the  country,  but 
T.  Tompkins  Smith  did  not  give  it,  for  just 
at  that  moment  the  bell  of  the  engine  rang 
out,  and  the  passengers  hurried  to  board  the 
train. 

"These  people  have   souls,"   whispered  Don 


i24  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

Federico  to  Mrs.  Smith,  as  he  assisted  her  up  the 
steps. 

"A  woman  with  a  child  must  have  a  soul," 
she  replied,  adding  doubtfully,  "if  any  of  us 
have." 

They  together  chatted  the  afternoon  away 
with  all  subjects,  from  Carlyle  to  coffee  planta 
tions  in  Tamaulipas.  Later,  when  the  sun  was 
slanting  its  rays  across  the  desert,  the  train 
stopped  at  a  section  house  rather  longer  than 
seemed  needful.  T.  Tompkins  Smith,  curious 
and  aching  for  movement,  left  his  companions 
and  went  forward. 

"What  are  we  waiting  for?"  he  queried  of 
the  oily  and  grimy  being  who  ran  the  engine. 

"  Water,"  was  the  laconic  answer. 

A  cigar,  tendered  by  the  questioner,  loosened 
the  grimy  being's  tongue. 

"  You  see,  the  tank  car  busted,  sprung  a  leak, 
and  when  we  tried  to  pump  into  the  engine 
there  warn't  nothin'  there.  Left  it  on  the  road,  I 
reckon.  Have  telegraphed  on  ahead  for  another 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  125 

tank  car."  He  reckoned,  too,  that  it  would  be  a 
couple  of  hours  before  the  water  would  reach 
them.  Smith  hurried  back  to  communicate  the 
news  to  his  companions. 

"  Would  you  like  to  take  a  stroll  over  the 
desert?  It's  much  cooler  now  than  it  was." 
Don  Federico  bent  over  Mrs.  Smith,  pleading 
with  tongue  and  eyes,  regardless  of  ownership. 
She  assented,  adjusting  her  hat  before  the  mir 
ror,  giving  it  a  little  touch  here  and  there,  deftly. 
Then  she  arose  and  followed  him.  When  they 
were  out  of  ear  shot  he  turned  to  her  suddenly  : 

"I  am  going  back  to  New  York  next 
month." 

She  lifted  her  blue  eyes  to  his,  searchingly. 

"What  for?" 

"  To  be  near  you.  Listen,  Margaret.  Until  I 
met  you  again  I  thought  I  could  go  through  life 
without  you.  Now  I  know  I  can't.  I  have 
been  much  alone  in  the  last  few  years,  alone  in 
mountain,  plain,  and  desert.  If  solitude  teaches 
a  man  anything,  it  teaches  him  the  power  of  will. 


i26  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

How  foolishly  we  mar  our  own  lives,  Margaret, 
when  it  lies  in  us  to  do  otherwise!  You  and  I 
could  sit  down  like  two  children  crying  over  a 
broken  toy,  or,  if  we  would,  make  our  future 
lives  as  glorious  as  those  of  gods!  Which  shall 
it  be,  Margaret  ?" 

She  was  looking  at  the  distant  mountain  peaks 
that  broke  the  coast  line  to  the  south. 

"  1  was  thinking,  Fred,  of  that  beautiful  little 
poem  of  Heine's  that  you  and  I  tried  to  put  into 
good  English  once,  in  the  old  days,  and  failed. 
Do  you  remember  it?"  She  quoted,  the  Ger 
man  in  her  sweet  mouth  sounding  soft  as 
Spanish : 

"  Ein  Fichtenbaum  steht  einsam 
Im  Norden  auf  kahler  Hohe. 
Ihn  schlafert;  mit  weiszer  Decke 
Umhiillen  ihn  Eis  und  Schnee. 

"  Er  traumt  von  einer  Palme, 
Die  fern  im  Morgenland 
Einsam  und  schweigend  trauert 
Auf  brennender  Felsenwand." 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  127 

Ere  she  completed  the  lines  the  man  had 
shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  "That  il 
lustrates  the  very  point  I  wish  to  make,  Margaret. 
A  pine  is  alone  in  the  North,  sleeping  and  dream 
ing  of  a  palm  that  mourns  for  him  in  the  South ; 
but  don't  you  see  they  are  trees, — or  weak  people, 
if  you  like.  If  that  pine  had  the  power  of  loco 
motion,  don't  you  see  that  he'd  be  a  fool  to  stay 
up  there  in  the  North,  sleeping  in  the  cold  and 
ice,  instead  of  coming  South  and  getting  the 
palm?" 

She  laughed  softly  at  his  vehemence. 

"Don't  you  see  that  other  things  besides  the 
mere  lack  of  power  to  move  may  have  kept  the 
pine  fixed  in  the  frozen  earth  ?  It  is  more  than 
probable  that  Heine  thought  of  those  other  things 
when  he  wrote  the  poem.  Look  at  those  two 
sharp  peaks."  She  pointed  to  the  distant  moun 
tains,  purpling  in  the  setting  sun.  "They  ought 
to  be  called  the  twins,  they  are  so  exactly  alike, 
yet  there  they  have  stood  for  ages  and  will  al 
ways  stand,  unable  to  approach  each  other, 


i28  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

though  they  may  yearn  to  do  so  to  heartbreak 
ing,  as  the  pine  yearned  for  the  palm.  When 
those  peaks  are  joined,  Fred,  then  may  we  be." 

Her  voice  trembled  in  spite  of  her  efforts.  She 
felt  like  a  person  writing  his  own  epitaph,  clos 
ing  from  within  the  only  outlet  of  his  vault 
where  through  leapt  the  glad  sunshine. 

They  stood  silent  for  a  while,  as  the  soft  even 
tide  fell  upon  the  plain.  Suddenly  the  man 
seized  the  woman's  arm  in  a  grip  like  that  of  an 
iron  vise.  He  quivered  with  excitement;  he 
shouted  like  a  Viking  at  sea: 

"Look!  look!  By  Heaven,  a  miracle!  A 
sign !  A  portent !  Margaret,  the  peaks  are 
joined  !" 

Yes,  one  of  the  many  clouds,  round  and  fleecy 
as  fat  sheep,  that  had  been  floating  lazily  across 
the  heavens,  had  struck  the  western  peak  and 
stopped  for  a  moment;  then,  little  by  little,  this 
cloud  lengthened  out  till  it  met  the  eastern  peak, 
forming  a  bridge  between  the  two. 

She  looked  doubtingly,  scarce  believing  what 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  129 

she  saw  ;  then,  half  conquered,  turned  upon 
him  the  pleading  look  of  a  trapped  animal. 
There  was  in  her  a  bit  of  inherited  superstition, 
as  there  is  in  the  best  of  us,  and  to  her  this  phe 
nomenon  was  almost  miraculous.  Not  so  to 
him,  for  he  had  seen  it  often  in  the  mountains 
that  rise  from  the  high  tableland  —  but  that  it 
should  occur  just  then  !  A  coincidence  ? 

Pleading,  yet  loving,  she  looked  at  him.  Ah  ! 
he  would  have  given  his  silver  mine  in  the  Sierra 
Mojada  twice  over  to  have  taken  her  in  his  arms 
then  and  there  and  kissed  her  tempting,  trem 
bling  mouth;  but  not  half  a  mile  away  was  the 
train,  and  T.  Tompkins  Smith  and  Mr.  Jarr,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  file  and  the  fossils,  and  not 
foliage  enough  betwixt  Don  Federico  and  all 
these  to  hide  a  jack  rabbit.  The  desert  was 
a  good  chaperon. 

Don  Federico  and  his  companion  turned  and 
walked  back  in  silence.  He  feared  to  say  more, 
lest  he  should  provoke  opposition,  preferring  to 
hope  on  the  half  consent  he  had  wrung  from  her. 


1 30  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

As  they  neared  the  train  Smith's  voice  rang 
out:  "Did  you  see  that  cloud  on  the  moun 
tains  ?  Wasn't  it  funny  ?  " 

Don  Federico  acknowledged  that  it  was,  and 
Mr.  Jarr  added  something  about  a  bridge  for  the 
gods  to  march  into  Valhalla,  whereupon  Mr. 
Smith  asked  him  if  that  were  in  Mexico. 

Just  then  a  black  speck  appeared  upon  the 
horizon,  where  the  converging  lines  of  steel  met, 
and  a  shrill  shriek  tore  through  the  purple  air. 
The  tank  car  was  coming,  so  the  passengers 
hastened  back  to  the  sleeper,  where  the  negro 
porter  was  already  beginning  to  make  up  the 
beds. 

Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith,  heedless  of  supper 
to  come,  and  pretexting  headache,  withdrew 
behind  the  curtains  of  her  section,  and,  partially 
disrobing,  threw  herself  upon  the  bed. 

Her  mind  was  in  a  whirl  ;  the  events  of  the 
day  had  thrown  her  from  her  moral  balance. 
She  must  be  alone,  to  smooth  out  the  wrinkled, 
crumpled  sheet  of  the  past  and  read  it  clearly. 


of  Mrs.   T.  Tompkins  Smith  131 

Her  emotions  must  be  dominated,  thrust  back 
into  their  respective  places,  weighed  and  ana 
lyzed  ;  shadow  and  substance,  fireflies  and 
comets,  distinguished.  She  was  playing  a  game 
with  her  future  for  the  stakes,  and  it  behooved 
her  to  look  well  to  the  cards.  Two  ways  were 
open  to  her — the  narrow  path,  leading  through 
New  York  society,  to  T.  Tompkins  Smith  ;  the 
broad  one,  through  the  desert,  to  Don  Federico. 
She  looked  back  over  seven  years,  and  they  were 
as  the  seven  lean  kine,  seven  pallid  milestones 
on  a  dull  and  dusky  road.  And  the  future,  ay 
de  mi  !  She  could  hear  in  advance  the  weary 
hours  rung  out  by  a  wearied  clock,  ticking  her, 
leaden  footed,  into  eternity — with  T.  Tompkins 
Smith.  To  have  striven  along  this  path  with 
anything  like  equanimity  she  must  have  felt  quite 
sure  of  the  priest-promised  prize  at  the  end  of  it 
all,  and  somehow,  in  the  garish  light  of  the  end 
of  the  century,  she  didn't.  And  the  other  way  ! 
Now  that  she  had  seen  again  the  lover  of  her 
youth,  every  fibre  of  her  being  strove  toward 


132  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

him,  every  beat  of  her  heart  sounded  his  name. 
With  him  the  path  would  be  pink-rose  strewn, 
made  merry  with  the  melody  of  affinity — even  if 
it  were  but  for  a  day,  with  door-closing  (or  door- 
opening  ?)  death  at  the  end  of  it.  But  duty  ! 
She  could  hear  the  clank,  clank,  clank,  as  the 
wheels  leapt  from  rail  to  rail.  Whirr  !  A  score 
of  skeletons  danced  about  her,  dirging  in  chorus: 
"Duty,  duty,  duty  !"  Now  they  spun  round 
and  round  like  whirling  dervishes,  drawing  ever 
nearer  to  her,  till  they  seemed  about  to  lay  their 
clammy  hands  upon  her,  and  she  would  have 
shrieked  in  her  affright  when  there  rose  a  tall 
form,  at  the  sight  of  which  the  skeletons  van 
ished.  The  appearance  was  shrouded  from  neck 
to  foot  in  misty  white.  The  face  was  indistinct 
but  for  two  balls  of  fire  that  stood  for  eyes, 
and  seemed  to  compass  her  about  with  flame. 
She  felt  herself  giving,  yielding,  melting,  and  the 
next  moment  she  knew  nothing,  for  she  was 
sound  asleep. 
Don  Federico  sat  the  night  out  on  the  rear 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  133 

platform  of  the  Pullman,  looking  up  into  the 
black,  spangled  infinity,  and  out  upon  the  hilled 
desert  full  of  strange  shadows.  His  purpose 
was  a  single  arrow  gathered  into  the  bow 
of  his  will,  drawn  taut.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  see  her  lying  there  in  her  bed 
behind  the  curtains,  one  white  arm  above  her 
head,  her  eyes  closed  in  sleep.  His  force  pene 
trated,  wrapped,  and  swayed  her  ;  she  quiv 
ered  under  it  like  a  wounded  thing.  He  would 
carry  off  the  woman  he  loved,  like  a  Berserker. 
Fight  if  need  be,  and  glory  in  it.  He  would 
crush  her,  tenderly,  lovingly.  The  strong  win, 
the  weak  lose  ;  he  had  learned  that  in  the  desert. 
He  would  win.  His  muscles  itched  for  the 
combat.  .  .  .  How  slow  were  the  stars  in 
moving  out  the  night ! 

The  day  came,  and  most  of  it  passed  with 
the  trite  on  the  surface,  two  torrents  roaring 
beneath  ;  T.  Tompkins  Smith  gay  with  tele 
graphic  news  of  a  rise  in  stocks,  flung  out  from 
a  way  station. 


134  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

They  had  left  the  deserts  of  the  North  behind 
them,  wheeling  into  fields  of  maguey;  cool  and 
blue  acequias  framed  in  bright  green ;  adobe  huts 
from  whose  low  doors  peered  brown  women, 
curious  of  the  passing  train.  Men  in  peaked 
hats,  sullen  faced,  muttered  curses  upon  the  iron 
horse  of  the  Gringos,  which  sped  by  like  a 
comet,  tailing  a  cloud  of  yellow  dust  that  pricked 
their  nostrils.  Dinner  at  six,  very  good,  at  a 
spacious  stone  station.  Mr.  Jarr  insisted  upon 
opening  a  couple  of  bottles  of  champagne  to 
celebrate  things  in  general  and  their  future  hap 
piness  in  particular.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  grew 
facetious,  told  some  good  stories,  dropping  his 
voice  at  passages  that  were  a  bit  off  color,  and 
they  all  laughed  loudly,  a  strain  in  the  laughter 
of  two,  taut  to  breaking. 

The  file  and  the  fossils  at  another  table, 
peering,  were  properly  shocked.  Them  New 
Yorkers !  A  contempt  that  wheezed  and 
sniffed. 

After  dinner  Mr.  Smith  and  his  friend  Mr.  Jarr 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  i35 

adjourned  to  the  smoking  compartment,  digest 
ing,  in  blue  clouds,  more  good  stories  to  come, 
Mr.  Jarr  the  victim. 

The  sun  fell  down  behind  the  Sierra,  and  trees 
and  huts  whirled  by,  blurred  in  the  gathering 
shadows,  vanishing  finally  into  black. 

Don  Federico  and  Mrs.  Tompkins  Smith  sat 
together,  silent,  she  straining  her  eyes  out  into 
the  void,  he  watching  her,  intent.  In  a  moment 
he  would  throw  the  dice — Quien  sabe  ? 

The  locomotive  shrieked  out  into  the  night, 
the  bell  clanged,  the  brakes  pressed  heavily  upon 
the  wheels. 

Don  Federico  glanced  at  his  watch,  looked 
around  the  empty  car,  and  then  bending  over, 
in  a  voice  that  was  hard  as  steel  and  unwavering 
as  death,  said  to  the  woman  who  sat  beside  him : 

"Listen,  Margaret.  In  a  minute  we  will  be 
at  the  station  where  I  get  off.  I  have  tele 
graphed  ahead  and  my  man  will  be  there  with 
two  horses.  You  are  mine,  and  you  must  come 
with  me.  Must!" 


136  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

She  looked  up  at  him,  startled,  quivering,  her 
face  white  to  the  lips. 

"Oh  !  No!  Fred,  no!"  Her  voice  was  a 
wavering  wail. 

His  eyes  glistened.  "You  must,  Margaret," 
he  repeated,  in  a  low,  firm  voice;  "you  will 
come  with  me  to  the  old  hacienda  on  the  crags, 
a  night's  gallop  from  here,  and  there  we  will  live 
our  lives  out  together." 

The  train  was  slowing  up. 

"  Come  ! "  She  half  rose  from  her  seat  at  the 
command. 

The  train  had  stopped  now. 

"  Come  !  "  He  led  the  way  to  the  rear  end  of 
the  Pullman.  She  followed,  protesting  :  "Oh  ! 
Fred,  please  !  This  is  cowardly." 

They  were  out  on  the  platform.  He  lifted  her 
to  the  ground,  and,  taking  her  by  the  arm,  hur 
ried  on,  passing  quickly  the  zone  of  light  that 
fell  from  the  car  windows,  and  then  into  the 
darkness  beyond.  "  Please,  Fred,  let  me  go," 
she  pleaded,  in  a  low  tone. 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  137 

He  laughed  softly,  but  hastened  on. 

"  Let  you  go,  Margaret  ?    Never  !  " 

He  half  lifted  her  over  some  stones  that  would 
have  bruised  her  feet.  She  heard  the  engine 
whistle,  and  then  the  train  rolled  away  to  the 
south,  a  moving  line  of  light.  Don  Federico 
called  out:  "  Antonio  !  " 

A  voice  came  out  of  the  night: 

"  Aqui  !  Senor." 

"  Are  the  horses  there  ?  " 

"Aqui  estan,  Senor." 

Now  they  could  hear  stamping  hoofs. 

"  Fred  !  "     A  last  appeal. 

His  answer  was  to  catch  her  up  in  his  arms 
and  swing  her  into  the  saddle.  He  leapt  upon 
the  other  horse. 

"Antonio  !" 

"Si,  Senor." 

"You  will  stay  about  here  till  morning  and 
hear  all  that  is  said.  Then  borrow  a  horse  from 
Don  Gasparo  and  come  straight  to  the  hacienda. 
Ears  open  and  mouth  shut." 


138  The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

"Si,  Don  Federico,  en  boca  cerrada  no  entran 
moscas." 

Don  Federico  leaned  over  and  seized  the  bridle 
of  Margaret's  horse.  Huy  !  The  spurs  fell 
upon  the  animal's  flanks  and  they  shot  out  into 
the  night.  Now  they  were  in  the  open,  where 
the  starlight  fell  unhindered  on  the  plain.  Huy  ! 
The  hoofs  rang  on  the  hard  earth.  Margaret 
swayed  in  the  ugly,  peaked  saddle.  Don  Federico 
perceived  it  and  forced  his  horse  close  to  hers, 
till  the  sides  of  the  animals  touched  ;  then  put 
his  arm  about  her  waist,  compelling  her  to  lean 
against  him,  gathering  both  bridles  into  his  other 
hand.  The  two  horses  galloped  as  one. 

"  Margaret  ! " 

No  answer.  He  could  not  see  her  face.  She 
lay  heavily  upon  him. 

"Margaret !" 

Still  no  answer.  The  man  grew  pale  with 
fear.  "Margaret,  speak  to  me.  Darling,  I  will 
take  you  back  if  you  wish  it.  We  can  telegraph, 
and  explain  that  we  were  left  by  the  train."  He 


of  Mrs.  T.  Tompkins  Smith  139 

faltered  ;  his  voice  broke  ;  his  courage  was  leav 
ing  him,  now  that  he  had  won.  "Shall  we  go 
back  ?  "  His  hand  was  straining  at  the  bridles. 

She  turned  and  lifted  her  face  up  to  his,  a 
curious  little  smile  trembling  upon  her  lips. 

"No,"  she  whispered. 

His  arm  tightened  about  her,  he  shouted  in 
triumph,  the  sound  echoing  from  the  gnarled 
hills  like  a  blast  from  a  clarion. 

Above  them  the  snowy  summit  of  the  Nevada 
de  Toluca,  silvered  by  the  rising  moon,  gleamed 
like  the  crown  of  a  queen. 

And  the  horses  swept  on,  through  the  night. 


The  Vision   of  Don   Juan    on    the    Piedra 
de  los  Angeles 


If  a  man  take  into  his  hand  one  that  is 
yellow,  changing  into  cloud-like  gray, 
and  sleep,  he  will  have  strange  dreams." 


The  Vision 

of 

Don  Juan 

on  the  Piedra 

de  los  Angeles 

^T^HE  sound  of  a  horse's  gallop  echoed  clearly 
from  the  canon  walls  to  the  cluster  of 
adobe  huts  which  from  time  immemorial  had 
borne  the  name  of  Tlatzmatlapan. 

As  yet  the  animal  could  not  be  seen,  for  there 
was  a  sharp  turn  in  the  canon  ere  it  debouched, 
like  the  mouth  of  a  huge  bellows,  into  the  valley; 
but  the  clatter  awoke  from  their  dreaming  the 
dwellers  of  the  huts,  who  issued  as  with  one 
accord  from  the  low  doors,  and  eagerly  watched 
the  barranca. 

Now  a  cry  rent  the  air — long,  swelling,  end 
ing  in  a  hissing  quaver — "  VengoconDi-o — sss  !  " 


i44  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

and  all  smiled,  for  they  knew  'twas  the  cry  of 
Pedro  the  carrier,  and  that  God  had  been  with 
him  during  his  long  ride  from  the  vale  of  Ana- 
huac.  Good  Padre  Mateo  came  out  from  the 
little  capilla  where  he  had  been  preparing  for 
vespers,  and  joined  the  watching  group,  for 
there  might  be  a  letter  from  the  bishop  or  the 
padre's  brother  in  Puebla,  quien  sabe  ? 

"  Adios,  Pedro  !  "  came  from  a  score  of  throats 
as  the  rider  turned  into  view.  Without  drawing 
rein,  and  with  brave  clinking  of  chain  and  spur, 
he  dashed  into  the  centre  of  the  dusty  plaza,  and 
then,  by  a  sudden  twist  of  the  rope  bridle,  threw 
the  animal  he  rode  back  upon  its  haunches,  him 
self  scarce  moving  at  the  shock. 

"Mail  for  Don  Juan!"  cried  Pedro,  shaking 
a  leathern  bag  above  his  head  and  looking  about 
him  with  an  air  of  important  inquiry. 

At  this  all  hands  pointed  to  a  man  who  lay 
stretched  out  in  a  hammock  suspended  under  a 
thatched  roof.  Touching  the  side  of  his  horse 
with  his  spur,  Pedro  rode  up  to  the  recumbent 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  145 

figure,  and  with  a  bow  handed  the  leathern  bag, 
making  another  yet  lower  as  the  silver  pieces 
given  in  return  clinked  in  his  hand.  Then  with 
a  "  Muchas  gracias,  Senor,"  he  walked  his  horse 
over  to  where  the  assembled  villagers  awaited 
him,  there  to  retail  much  of  the  gossip  he  had 
learned  in  the  valley  below,  upon  the  smooth 
plains  of  Anahuac,  where  the  white  City  of  the 
Sun  lies  under  the  guard  of  Ixtaccihuatl,  the 
White  Woman,  first,  however,  giving  to  the 
padre  a  recent  copy  of  the  Voz  de  Mexico,  much 
to  the  delight  of  the  good  man,  who  loved  to 
read  the  news  of  the  day  in  a  paper  the  bishop 
himself  approved  of. 

Don  Juan  arose  from  his  hammock,  and  at  the 
first  tinkle  of  the  bell  that  called  to  vespers 
walked  up  the  steep  path  that  led  to  the  Piedra 
de  los  Angeles,  a  rock  that  jutted  abruptly  out  of 
the  side  of  Tare-Tzuruan,  the  highest  peak  in  the 
State  of  Michoacan.  One  could  but  remark,  as 
he  leapt  from  stone  to  stone,  that  the  name  of 
Don  Juan  sat  illy  upon  him.  The  tall  yet  mas- 

10 


146  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

sive  form,  the  blond  hair  and  beard,  the  eyes  of 
deep  sea-blue,  all  told  of  Viking  blood,  very 
different  from  the  Tenorio  of  poem  and  story. 
But  then  no  Mexican  tongue  could  say  his  un 
couth  northern  name,  so  he  had  given  the  vil 
lagers  "Don  Juan"  as  a  handle  of  address,  and 
these  simple  Indian  folk  were  content  therewith, 
the  Don  distinguishing  him  from  the  many  other 
Juans,  Juanchos,  and  Juanitos  who  lay  around. 

"See!"  cried  Pedro  the  carrier,  stopping  for 
a  moment  his  tale  of  the  wondrous  fiestas  he  had 
seen  in  the  great  city,  where  the  President  of  the 
Republic  had  just  reflected  himself,  and  point 
ing  to  the  mountain  side,  "there  goes  Don  Juan 
up  the  mountain.  What  can  he  do  there  now  ?  " 

"Caray,"  answered  old  Concha,  who,  by 
reason  of  her  age,  good  memory,  and  ready 
tongue,  took  the  lead  in  village  discussion. 
"He  goes  to  sit  on  yon  rock  and  smoke  of  an 
evening.  Why,  I  know  not.  Lucky  for  him  he 
does  not  sleep  there!" 

"  Why  ?  "  queried  Pedro. 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  147 

"  Why,"  repeated  the  madre,  with  some  con 
tempt  in  her  tone,  "hast  thou  passed  here  so 
many  times  since  the  government  gave  thee  thy 
place,  Pedro,  and  knowest  not  that  yon  rock  is 
the  rock  of  the  angels,  and  that  he  who  sleeps 
a  night  there  never  awakens?" 

"Why  ?"  again  Pedro. 

' '  Carramba !  Thou  art  made  of  '  whys, '  Pedro, " 
exclaimed  the  old  woman,  stamping  her  foot 
impatiently,  yet  withal  not  ill-pleased  to  have  the 
tale  to  tell  again.  "Well,  it  is  because  if  one 
sleeps  there  at  night  the  angels  come  down  and 
take  away  his  soul." 

"Buena  historia,  esa,"  replied  Pedro,  looking 
laughingly  around  and  curling  his  moustache. 

"A  good  story,  is  it! "  shrieked  old  Concha, 
trembling  with  rage.  "  The  next  thing  thou  wilt 
be  doubting  the  holy  sacrament  and  the  saints  in 
paradise!  Three  times  did  it  occur  in  the  life 
time  of  my  mother,  who  is  with  God,  and  many 
a  time  has  she  told  me  the  tale.  Besides,  'tis  all 
written  down  on  yellow  paper  by  the  cura  of 


148  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

this  place,  the  one  we  had  before  Padre  Mateo, 
and  with  a  seal  on  it  as  big  as  my  hand!  And  if 
thou  wilt  go  up  there  thou  wilt  see  a  cross  cut  in 
the  stone!" 

"Tis  well,  madre,"  interjected  Pedro  at  the 
first  opportunity,  desirous  of  staying  the  old 
woman's  wrath  and  torrent  of  words,  but  she 
would  not  heed  him  ! 

"  I  tell  thee,  boy,  thou  art  losing  thy  faith  since 
thou  hast  been  employed  by  this  unholy  govern 
ment  of  Porfirio  Diaz,  who  respects  not  the 
Church  nor  the  ministers  of  God.  Ave  Maria 
purissima,  but  thou  wilt  be  damned  !  " 

"Hush,  madre  !"  cried  a  young  girl,  as  with 
the  blood  darkening  her  brown  cheek  she  sprang 
to  the  carrier's  side.  "  You  go  too  far.  Pedro  is 
no  heretic." 

The  carrier  put  his  arm  affectionately  about  the 
girl's  waist.  "All  here  know  that  as  soon  as 
the  rainy  season  begins,  Conchita  and  I  marry, 
and  she  goes  with  me  to  the  city  to  live.  She 
will  have  a  hat  with  flowers  and  feathers  in  it, 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  i49 

and  walk  with  me  in  the  Alameda  Sunday  noon, 
amidst  the  best  of  the  caballeros.  Is  it  not  so, 
chiquita  ?  " 

The  old  woman  drew  away,  mumbling,  for 
she  saw  that  all  were  with  Pedro  and  against 
her ;  but  her  wrath  knew  no  limit  when  any  one 
doubted  the  story  of  the  holy  stone  that  thrust 
itself  so  strangely  and  abruptly  from  the  smooth 
side  of  gigantic  Tare-Tzuruan. 

In  the  meantime  Don  Juan  had  reached  the 
rock,  followed  by  a  little  yellow  dog  that  kept 
close  to  his  heels.  Seating  himself  and  lighting 
a  Victoria  de  Colon,  he  untied  the  thong  that 
closed  the  bag  and  shook  out  a  score  of  letters 
upon  his  knees.  Carelessly  he  glanced  at  their 
contents  and  tossed  them  aside,  all  but  one, 
which  he  seized  with  seeming  eagerness.  His 
name  was  penned  upon  it  as  finely  as  if  with  the 
engraver's  tool  and  art,  and  the  postmark  bore 
the  name  of  a  city  of  the  North. 

He  tore  open  the  envelope  and  slowly  read  the 
pink  sheet  that  it  had  held.  When  he  had  fin- 


150  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

ished  he  laid  it  aside  and  took  from  his  pocket 
the  picture  of  a  woman,  at  which  he  gazed  long 
and  attentively  ;  then  he  took  letter  and  picture, 
and  throwing  them  upon  the  rock,  ground  them 
to  powder  with  his  heel,  not  angrily,  but  rather 
as  if  weary,  utterly  weary  of  it  all. 

Drawing  his  zarape  more  closely  about  him, 
he  lay  back,  resting  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
and  watched  the  sun  fall  behind  the  ragged 
Sierra,  outlining  it  in  fire.  Out  of  bottomless 
barrancas  and  yawning  holes  dug  by  gold- 
seekers  of  old  came  the  black  shadows,  creep 
ing  out  into  the  valley,  stealing  up  the  moun 
tain  sides  till  they  reached  and  quenched  the 
glow  that  still  lingered  upon  the  peaks.  The 
stars  glittered  out  of  the  dark  canopy  above,  and 
a  cold  wind  moaned  down  the  canon.  Still 
Don  Juan  did  not  move,  but  gazed  steadily  into 
space,  and  the  yellow  dog  nestled  closer  to 
him. 

From  the  village  below  came  the  notes  of  old 
Tiburcio's  violin  and  the  clamor  of  singing 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  151 

women,  filtered  by  the  heavy  air  into  a  single 
chord  of  harmony.  Still  Don  Juan  gazed  steadily 
out  upon  the  blackness  and  the  void  ;  for  mem 
ory,  that  tricky  painter  of  mingled  truth  and  lie, 
was  making  for  him  a  multicolored  phantasm, 
toned  throughout  with  the  misty  gray  of  non- 
fruition.  The  picture  grew  duller,  the  figures 
blending  shadow-fashion  into  grotesquerie,  and 
he  became  keener  to  the  sounds  without,  the 
voices  of  the  night,  deep  monotones  cut  athwart 
by  sharp  cry  of  bird  or  beast.  The  stars  shone 
with  a  swifter  light,  marking  deeper  their  set 
ting  of  infinity  ;  but  one,  that  hung  just  above 
a  spear-like  peak,  even  as  the  dot  upon  an 
"i,"  sent  a  luminous  shaft,  clear  and  distinct,  to 
the  very  rock  whereon  lay  Don  Juan. 

Scarce  had  he  time  to  note  this,  when  he  saw 
a  figure  coming  down  this  glittering  pathway,  a 
figure  of  shining  haze,  yet  well  marked  in  form 
and  feature.  Another  followed,  and  another, 
until  six  in  all  moved  toward  him.  What 
strange  phantasm  was  this  ?  He  sat  up  that  he 


152  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

might  see  more  surely,  and  the  yellow  dog  by 
his  side  moaned  and  hid  its  face  in  a  fold  of  its 
master's  zarape. 

The  first  of  the  throng  placed  a  foot  upon  the 
rock,  and  passed  him  so  closely  that  he  might 
have  touched  her  with  his  hand.  It  was  a 
woman,  one  he  had  well  known  in  years  gone 
by.  Well  he  knew  the  stately  form  and  proud 
face,  the  eyes  which,  though  cold  to  all  others, 
had  softened  to  him — only  for  a  moment.  Her 
pride  pricked  her  for  a  fall.  But  he  felt  no  regret 
that  it  was  bygone,  and  had  for  greeting  to  her 
but  a  smile,  hinting  at  contempt.  Slowly  this 
figure  vanished,  seemingly  adown  the  mountain 
side,  engulfed,  and  the  next  strode  before  him. 
She  held  in  one  hand  a  bunch  of  scarlet  flowers, 
and  in  the  other  a  cup  of  wine  which  her  joy 
ous  laugh  spiced  with  the  hope  of  pleasures  to 
come,  keen  to  rending.  Her  dark  eyes  and  red 
lips  spoke  of  love,  and  her  rounded  limbs,  and 
men  had  given  gold  and  honor  that  they  might 
touch  her  hair.  Well  he  knew  her,  too.  She 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  153 

had  come  into  his  life  and  gone  out  of  it,  a  dream 
without  dregs,  and  he  smiled,  as  she  passed  on,  a 
smile  of  pleased  remembrance. 

Then  came  one  of  slender  form  and  anguished 
countenance,  as  of  one  who  had  sinned  and  was 
sorely  troubled  thereat,  beating  her  breast  that 
memories  of  pleasant  hours  might  not  rise  and 
stand  'twixt  her  and  soul's  salvation  ;  her  eyes 
were  heavy  with  reproach  and  querulous  repin 
ing.  He  laughed  mockingly  as  she  moved  away. 

There  stepped  behind  her  a  girl  of  dull  form, 
but  flecked  sharp  with  bright  color  of  flower  and 
feather  and  gleaming  jewel.  Though  featured, 
her  face  was  a  blank  whereon  petty  vices  and 
weakly  virtues  writhed  and  marked  themselves 
like  dun  serpents,  drugged,  slow  moving  to  a 
dim  and  feeble  piping.  The  pride  in  her  step 
was  from  numbers  ;  for  could  she  have  waved 
her  hand  and  evoked  her  like  throughout  the 
world's  broad  plains,  the  heavens  would  have 
blackened  with  the  rising  myriad. 

Don  Juan  turned  wearily  from  her  to  the  one 


154  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

who  followed.  Here  was  force — force  in  the 
lithe  and  supple  form,  force  in  the  dark  eyes  that 
flashed  anger  and  revenge,  force  in  the  nervous 
fingers  that  clutched  the  hilt  of  a  shadowy  knife 
and  yearned  to  plunge  it  into  the  breast  of  the 
man  who  lay  upon  the  rock.  She  struggled  to 
reach  him,  and  when  borne  on  by  some  invisible 
power,  she  shrieked,  baffled — no,  'twas  only  the 
cry  of  some  night  bird  caught  in  the  canon. 

But  now  the  way  that  lay  from  the  star  grew 
brighter,  and  adown  it  came  two  figures,  a 
woman  and  child,  at  the  sight  of  whom  Don 
Juan  rose  to  a  sitting  posture  and  his  breath 
came  quick  and  sharp.  The  woman's  brown 
hair  fell  about  her  like  a  veil,  framing  a  pallid  face 
whereon  was  writ  infinite  sadness  and  the  suf 
fering  that  is  not  to  end  through  all  the  roll  of 
centuries,  not  even  when  the  earth  splits  asunder 
and  falls  screaming  through  space.  Both  hands 
of  the  fair-haired  child  were  clasped  to  one  of 
hers,  and  its  blue  eyes  looked  up  to  her  darker 
ones  with  trusting  worship.  She  saw  the  man 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  155 

upon  the  rock,  but  in  her  look  was  naught  of 
reproach  nor  of  complaining,  only  tenderness 
without  bounds.  Don  Juan  moaned  in  his  pain, 
and  sank  his  nails  into  his  breast  until  red  drops 
followed  the  cut.  Then  he  held  out  his  hands 
to  her,  imploring  ;  but  she,  understanding,  gently 
shook  her  head.  Love  such  as  hers  would  have 
only  what  it  gave,  and  she  well  knew  that  this 
would  never  come  to  Don  Juan,  and  he  suffered 
that  he  could  not  create  it.  The  boundaries  of 
fate  are  higher  than  the  stars  and  stronger  than 
the  ages,  and  she  blamed  not  him  that  he  could 
not  love,  but  the  Parcse,  who  twisted  the  threads 
of  life,  or  ran  them  singly  through  the  ever- 
moving  shuttle.  She  bowed  to  the  decree  of  the 
Fates  ;  he  would  have  struggled  against  it,  though 
knowing  such  struggle  to  be  vain.  He  held  out 
his  hands  to  her,  but  even  as  he  did  so  the  figures 
grew  misty,  and  soon  where  they  stood  was  but 
the  black  sheath  of  the  night,  jewelled  with  quiet 
stars. 
The  man,  bending  over,  hid  his  face  in  his 


156  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

hands,  and  the  yellow  dog  thrust  its  head  out 
from  the  folds  of  the  zarape  and  licked  the  hands 
softly. 

The  night  sped  on,  and  now  the  deep  silence 
seemed  to  vibrate,  at  first  into  a  low  monotone, 
rising  higher  until  it  broke  into  a  cadence  of 
softer  notes,  the  harmony  of  the  whirling  atoms 
in  rock  and  tree  and  tinkling  water.  Don  Juan 
listened,  and  this  harmony  broke  into  words,  a 
voice  distinctly  speaking: 

"Over,  over,  over  the  waters  I  move,  o'er 
broad  plain  and  peaked  hill.  He  who  lays  o'er 
night  upon  this  rock  will  see  the  past  and  know 
the  future.  Look  up,  Don  Juan." 

The  musical  syllables  were  loud  and  clear, 
seemingly  at  his  side,  and  he  took  his  hands 
from  his  face  and  looked  up. 

Beside  him  stood  a  form  of  perfect  beauty,  such 
as  in  the  sculptor's  dream  floats  above  the  hired 
model  when  the  artist,  despairing,  lets  fall  his 
chisel,  clanging  upon  the  marble.  He  marvelled 
at  her  beauty,  and  yet  more  at  her  words. 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  157 

Never  had  he  seen  her;  no  hidden  door  of  mem 
ory  opened  as  he  gazed  upon  her.  He  felt  within 
him  a  sense  of  peace,  of  quiet  infinite,  that  recked 
not  of  the  fall  of  worlds,  that  soothed  the  pain  in 
his  breast,  and  healed  all  wounds  as  though  they 
had  never  been.  She  bent  over  and  placed  her 
hand  upon  his  brow. 

"  Thou  hast  sought  love,  Don  Juan,  and  found 
it  not.  Evil  hast  thou  wrought,  seeking  it,  but 
for  this  blame  the  Fates,  not  thyself,  for  they  led 
thee  winding  ways.  This  much  may  I  tell  thee; 
that  before  thou  reachest  the  end  thou  wilt  meet 
me,  and  thou  shalst  know  love  as  the  gods  know 
it,  eternal  and  infinite.  We  two  have  sought 
each  other  through  the  ages,  ever  since  the  soul 
was  born  of  the  first  woman  who  sorrowed  in 
love,  and  it  is  written  that  we  shall  meet.  So 
be  of  good  cheer  and  journey  on,  fearing  not,  and 
I  await  thee."  She  bent  over  him  till  her  lips 
were  upon  his.  Her  kiss  thrilled  him  like  the 
touch  of  a  god.  He  put  out  his  arms  to  enfold 
her — but  there  was  nothing  there.  Still  he  could 


158  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

hear  the  music  of  the  voice  :  "Over,  over,  over 
the  waters  I  go,  o'er  broad  plain  and  peaked 
hill.  .  .  ."  The  voice  sank  into  a  monotone, 
and  this  dwindled  into  silence  again,  and  Don 
Juan  slept,  his  head  upon  his  arm,  the  yellow 
dog  shivering  in  the  folds  of  its  master's  zarape. 

Tap!  Tap!  Tap!  "Padre  Mateo  !  Padre  mio, 
for  the  love  of  God  come  quickly!  "  'Twas  the 
voice  of  old  Concha,  standing  without,  and  at 
the  sound  of  it  the  priest  arose  from  his  couch 
and  went  to  his  door.  "What  is  it,  my 
daughter?"  he  called  from  within. 

"  Ave  Maria,  Padre,"  she  whispered  shrilly, 
"  but  Don  Juan  the  Americano  has  gone  to  sleep 
on  the  Stone  of  the  Angels,  and  they  are  taking 
away  his  soul  !  " 

Quickly  the  padre  threw  about  him  his  new 
black  robe,  over  this  a  blanket,  and  thrusting  his 
feet  into  his  sandals  opened  the  door  and  hurried 
out  upon  the  plaza.  He  saw  there  the  entire 
population  of  Tlatzmatlapan  huddled  together 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  i59 

and  shivering,  their  blankets  drawn  about  them, 
covering  their  faces  up  to  their  eyes. 

Old  Concha  seized  the  priest's  arm  as  he  came 
out.  "Look,"  she  whispered,  pointing  to  the 
Piedra  de  los  Angeles  on  the  side  of  mighty 
Tare-Tzuruan.  "I  saw  that  Don  Juan  did  not 
come  back,  and  I  watched  the  rock,  and  but  a 
moment  ago  I  saw  a  light  upon  it.  Ave  Maria 
purissima  !  See  !  " 

The  padre  gazed  steadily,  his  arm  still  held  by 
the  old  woman.  Perhaps  in  some  corner  of  his 
nature  there  had  lurked  a  doubt  as  to  the  legend 
so  carefully  cherished  in  the  records  of  his 
church,  but  now,  by  Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe  ! 
there  could  be  none,  for  he  saw  it  with  his  own 
eyes — and  if  you  cannot  trust  them,  what  can 
you  trust,  eh  ?  Juan  Diego  himself,  when  he 
saw  the  miraculous  Virgin  on  the  hill  of  Guada 
lupe,  had  nothing  but  his  eyes  to  see  with.  The 
new  doctrine  of  contagious  hallucination  had  not 
yet  found  its  way  to  far  Tlatzmatlapan,  and  if  it 
had,  the  good  padre  would  rather  trust  to  the 


160  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

eyes  that  God  had  given  him  than  to  the  ridicu 
lous  theories  of  a  parcel  of  heretical  Frenchmen. 
He  saw  it;  saw  the  stone  lit  up  with  a  strange 
light  that  was  like  nothing  ever  seen  of  this  earth, 
and  forms  of  flame  moving  therein.  After  a 
while,  one  greater,  more  brilliant  than  the  rest 
— then  all  vanished,  and  darkness  again  shrouded 
the  holy  stone. 

A  long  time  thereafter  the  watchers  were 
silent,  only  breaking  out  now  and  then  into  a 
whispered  Ave  Maria  or  a  Nuestro  Senor,  for  a 
great  awe  was  upon  them.  Had  there  been 
devils  on  yonder  rock  there  is  no  doubt  the 
padre,  armed  with  a  crucifix  and  a  bowl  of  holy 
water,  would  have  marched  straight  to  the  rescue, 
for  he  was  a  man  of  kindly  impulse  and  withal 
brave  enough  in  his  way.  But  with  angels  one 
must  bow  to  the  will  of  God. 

So  they  stood  there  the  night  through,  waiting 
until  the  first  arrow  of  Tonatiuh  tipped  with  gold 
the  peak  of  Tare-Tzuruan  and  drove  away  the 
spirits  of  darkness,  giving  courage  to  the  hearts 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  161 

of  those  whose  forefathers  had  worshipped 
him. 

Now,  at  a  nod  from  the  priest,  Pedro  the  car 
rier  and  Jose  the  sacristan  went  together  to  the 
church  and  got  therefrom  the  stretcher  of  wood 
and  leather  that  had  served  to  carry  many  to 
their  last  rest  in  the  Campo  Santo.  As  a  heretic, 
Don  Juan  could  scarce  be  buried  there  in  holy 
ground,  but  if  the  angels  had  taken  his  soul, 
carramba  !  'twas  a  case  over  which  the  arch 
bishop  himself  might  well  puzzle  and  lose  his 
Latin.  But  they  could  bring  him  down  from  yon 
rock,  and  then — to-morrow  they  would  decide 
what  to  do. 

So  a  procession  was  formed  and  started  bravely 
up  the  path.  First  the  padre,  with  a  crucifix, 
for  one  never  could  be  quite  sure  about  angels 
when  heretics  were  in  question.  Then  Pedro 
and  Jose  carrying  the  stretcher.  Next,  Madre 
Concha,  fairly  bursting  with  pride  and  piety, 
her  faded  blue  rebozo  drawn  tightly  over  head 

and  shoulders.     The  entire  population  followed, 
ii 


162  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

even  to  the  chicos,  clinging  fearfully  to  their 
mothers'  skirts. 

Up  the  steep  path  they  wound  till  just  beneath 
the  rock,  beyond  the  edge  of  which  projected  a 
man's  boot  and  the  sharp  nose  of  a  little  yellow 
dog.  Here  the  padre  stopped  a  moment, 
doubtless  for  breath,  and  the  rest  did  likewise. 
The  little  yellow  dog  eyed  them  doubtfully.  It 
was  not  quite  sure  of  their  intentions.  Two  or 
three  times  it  opened  its  mouth  as  if  to  bark, 
then  shut  it  again  to  await  further  developments. 
The  padre  started,  winding  around  the  rock, 
and  now  was  upon  it.  There  lay  Don  Juan, 
as  large  as  life,  stretched  out  upon  the  hard 
stone,  his  head  resting  upon  his  arm,  his  bright- 
hued  zarape  wound  about  him.  At  this  juncture 
the  yellow  dog  came  to  a  decision,  and  opening 
widely  its  mouth,  emitted  a  sharp,  clear  yelp 
which  cut  the  air  like  a  knife,  and  then  the 
body  on  the  rock  moved. 

The  footing  of  Padre  Mateo  upon  the  steep 
side  was  at  best  precarious,  and  by  a  coincidence 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  163 

he  lost  his  equilibrium  at  this  particular  moment, 
falling  heavily  against  Pedro,  who  in  turn 
jammed  the  stretcher  into  Jose1,  who  knocked 
down  Madre  Concha,  and  the  next  instant  all 
these  good  people  were  rolling  down  the  moun 
tain  side  in  a  confused  heap,  amid  the  cries  of 
terror  of  the  villagers.  'Twas  not  long,  how 
ever,  ere  they  stopped,  unmixed  themselves  un 
harmed,  and  the  padre,  angry  with  himself, 
bounded  up  to  the  rock.  He  was  just  in  time 
to  see  the  recumbent  figure  stretch  out  an  arm, 
then  a  leg,  open  its  mouth  in  an  abysmal  yawn, 
and  sit  up. 

"You  are  alive  and  well,  Senor?"  cried  the 
padre  in  something  of  a  strangled  voice. 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  Don  Juan  in  a  natural  but 
sleepy  tone,  gazing  with  some  wonderment  at 
the  awed  and  astonished  faces  of  those  who  now 
crowded  the  narrow  platform. 

"But  the  angels,  Senor?"  cried  Concha,  in 
mingled  wrath  and  disappointment  ;  "hast  thou 
seen  no  angels  this  night  ?  " 


164  The  Vision  of  Don  Juan  on 

Don  Juan  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"Yes,  angels  and  devils,  madrecita.  I  have 
dreamed  strange  dreams  upon  your  rock,  for  a 
truth.  But,"  he  added,  coming  fully  to  himself 
and  catching  sight  of  the  stretcher  which  Jose 
and  Pedro  were  making  desperate  efforts  to  hide, 
"I  do  not  need  that  yet,  my  friends  !"  and  he 
leapt  to  his  feet,  in  his  full  strength,  and  the 
yellow  dog  executed  a  fantastic  joy-dance  about 
his  heels. 

Respectfully  they  made  way  for  him  to  pass 
down.  As  he  came  to  Conchita,  who  clung 
fearfully  to  Pedro's  arm,  he  drew  from  his  finger 
a  ring.  "Take  this,  girl,  as  a  wedding  present 
from  the  man  who  slept  on  the  Piedra  de  los 
Angeles,  and  may  it  bring  thee  luck  and  love. 
And  you,  Jose,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  sacris 
tan,  "saddle  my  horse  quickly,  for  after  a  tortilla 
and  a  cup  of  the  madrecita's  coffee,  I  go  down  to 
Anahuac." 

He  strode  on  down  the  mountain,  the  rest  fol 
lowing  slowly  in  whispering  groups. 


the  Piedra  de  los  Angeles  165 

That  morning  he  rode  out  along  the  canon, 
after  many  farewells  and  "  Vaya  Vd.  con  Dios  " 
from  these  simple  folk.  At  first  he  let  the  rein 
hang  idly  over  the  high  peak  of  his  Mexican  sad 
dle,  the  horse  picking  its  way  as  it  would,  the 
man  lost  in  thought. 

Was,  then,  all  this  true  ?  Was  there  before 
him,  in  what  was  left  to  him  of  life,  the  per 
fect  woman,  the  love  that  knows  not  doubt  nor 
sorrow,  that  makes  gods  of  men  ? 

But  a  moment  later  he  seized  the  reins  and 
drove  his  spurs  into  the  flanks  of  his  horse. 

He  did  not  believe  it. 


Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 


And  a  handful  of  divers  hues, 
which  may  mean  anything  or 
nothing,  as  one  will." 


Cosmopolitana 
Mexicana 

Jornada  I 

TT  was  a  great  holiday,  the  Saturday  following 
Good  Friday,  and  the  city  was  in  gala  dress. 
To  one  who  knows  the  climate  of  Mexico,  some 
eight  thousand  feet  nearer  the  clouds  than  sea- 
coast  towns,  it  is  needless  to  add  that  the 
weather  was  fine,  the  sky  unflecked  by  a  cloud, 
the  sun  dazzling.  Eight  months  of  clear,  bright 
days,  one  so  like  unto  the  other  that  you  long 
for  a  tempest  and  thirst  for  a  patter  of  rain, 
wishing  the  sun  moon-like,  with  quarters.  Now, 
even  about  the  forehead,  breasts,  and  knees  of 
the  White  Woman,  Ixtaccihuatl,  there  was  no 
crown  nor  wreath  of  mist,  nor  a  bit  of  smoke 


170  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

lingering  about  the  cones  of  Popocatepetl.  Only 
one  great  expanse  of  blue  into  which  the  white 
volcanoes  dipped. 

In  every  street,  suspended  from  cords  stretched 
from  house  to  house,  were  huge  dolls,  man-size, 
fantastically  painted  and  dressed,  the  Judases 
which  were  to  be  this  day  shot,  knifed,  and 
burned,  that  the  people  might  thus  fittingly  show 
their  hatred  of  the  one  who  had  betrayed  the 
gentle  Christ. 

The  Zocalo,  the  great  square  in  front  of  the 
cathedral,  swarmed  with  a  multicolored  mass  of 
humanity,  pushing  and  jostling  good  naturedly, 
the  upper  classes  in  sombre  black  and  gray,  the 
lower  in  zarapes  of  every  hue  that  light  con 
tains,  and  many  that  it  doesn't.  Mingling  with 
all  were  Indian  hawkers  and  peddlers,  proffering 
their  wares  with  shrill  cries  ;  children  lugging 
grotesque  dolls  to  burn  at  home.  Beggars 
whined  and  squeaked,  dark-skinned  women  in 
blue  rebozos,  from  the  floating  gardens  of  La 
Vega,  tendered  their  bouquets  of  fragrant  flow- 


Jornada  I  171 

ers,  while  now  and  then  a  carriage  split  the 
crowd,  the  driver  shouting  for  way.  It  was  all 
bathed  in  splendid  sunshine,  and  splendid  music 
from  the  military  band  that  played  in  the  kiosk, 
and  deep  waves  of  harmony  that  rolled  out  from 
the  great  bells  swinging  in  the  tall  twin  towers 
of  the  church. 

From  the  plaza  the  mass  flowed  into  the  nar 
row  streets  of  Plateros  and  San  Francisco,  toward 
the  Alameda,  for  it  was  near  noon,  and  the  fash 
ion  and  beauty  of  Mexico  must  be  in  the  green 
and  shady  walks  by  that  hour,  to  see  and  be 
seen,  to  smile,  gossip,  and  smirk. 

In  front  of  the  arched  door  of  the  palace  that 
was  of  Iturbide,  now  fallen  to  the  base  uses  of  a 
hostelry,  stood  two  degenerate  descendants  of 
Aztec  kings,  clad  in  peaked  straw  hats  and  ragged 
cotton  shirts,  holding  out  their  hands,  upon  every 
finger  of  which  was  perched  a  live  tropical  bird 
of  brilliant  plumage,  seemingly  well  content  and 
undisturbed  by  the  passing  crowd.  "  Pajaros, 
pajaritos  bonitos,  mansos,"  shrilled  the  natives  in 


1 72  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

chorus,  thrusting  the  birds  almost  into  the  face 
of  every  one  who  bore  the  marks  of  a  tourist. 

"Oh,  Dick!  just  look  at  those  lovely  tame 
birds,"  cried  a  young  American  woman  who 
hung  upon  the  arm  of  a  young  American  man, 
and  the  demeanor  of  those  two  proclaimed  to 
who  would  read,  that  they  were  inseparably, 
indissolubly,  inextricably,  and  by  due  process  of 
law,  linked  in  wedlock. 

"  Ask  him  how  much  they  are,  Dick,  do  !  " 

Dick  brought  his  entire  knowledge  of  the  lan 
guage  to  bear  upon  the  natives,  and  uttered  the 
one  word,  ' '  Cuanto  ?  " 

"Dos  pesos,  Senor,"  replied  the  vendor  of 
birds. 

"I  guess  that  means  two  dollars,  Dolly," 
doubtfully. 

"Oh,  that's  only  Mexican  dollars,  Dick!" 
Her  eyes  yearned  to  the  little  feathered  bunches. 

A  tall  man  who  had  been  standing  near  her 
bent  over.  "Excuse  me,  madam,"  he  said,  "I 
would  advise  you  not  to  buy  those  birds.  They 


Jornada  I  173 

have  been  recently  snared  in  the  forests  of  the 
Tierra  caliente,  and  a  half  ounce  of  small  shot  has 
been  forced  down  their  throats.  This  is  why 
they  are  unable  to  fly.  To-morrow  they  will  be 
dead  !  " 

"Oh,  dear  !  how  awfully  cruel  !"  exclaimed 
the  woman  ;  and  then  she  and  her  lawful  spouse 
turned  away  and  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
moving  throng. 

The  tall  man  gazed  for  a  moment  after  his 
countrywoman,  who  had  failed  to  even  nod  an 
appreciation  of  his  courtesy  in  saving  her  both 
expense  and  trouble.  He  was  not  surprised.  In 
her  fade  but  rather  pretty  face  there  was  no 
spark  of  intelligence  nor  breeding.  She  was  of 
a  certain  schoolgirl  type,  celebrated  in  song  and 
story,  carefully  avoided  by  all  wise  men. 

He  was  still  looking,  lost  in  thought,  when  a 
hand  was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  a  voice  beside 
him  said  :  "  Tiens,  c'est  toi.  Georges  !  Juste- 
ment  je  te  cherchais." 

"Ah!  Paul,"  replied  the  one  thus  addressed,  in 


174  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

French  that  bore  no  trace  of  being  spoken  by 
a  Saxon,  "I  was  about  to  look  you  up  in  the 
Alameda." 

"  I  hope  you  have  no  engagement  for  to-day," 
continued  the  Frenchman,  vivaciously;  "we 
will  meet  Calvo  and  Petroffski  there,  and  I  have 
ordered  dinner  at  the  Cafe*  de  Paris  for  one 
o'clock.  They  have  just  received  some  fresh 
oysters  via  Vera  Cruz,  and  I  am  sick  of  the  table 
d'hote  at  the  Jockey  Club.  Si  le  coeur  t'en  dit  ?  " 

The  American  nodded  in  acquiescence.  Paul 
chattered  on. 

"Quel  trou,  ce  Mexique,  mon  cher,  quelle 
galere,  quelle  infamie  !  It  is  a  most  marvellous 
thing  that  France  should  think  of  keeping  a  min 
ister  or  even  a  charge  d'affaires  here.  Va  pour 
le  ministre  !  He  seems  to  like  it,  but  wherefore 
an  attache  ?  My  poor  mother  is  working  night 
and  day  to  get  me  out  of  here  and  sent  to  Japan, 
Tonquin,  Tunis,  the  devil — anywhere.  She  even 
went  to  elemental, — just  think  of  it,  elemental, 
— who  has  such  a  pull  with  the  ministry  that  he 


Jornada  I  175 

was  able  to  send  a  mari  importun  to  Denmark. 
But  nothing,  nothing.  The  Deschanteaux  are 
not  in  favor  with  the  bourgeois  government." 

In  front  of  the  Jockey  Club  they  were  stopped, 
the  multitude  in  front  of  them  closing  up  into  a 
compact  mass.  From  somewhere  beyond  came 
shouts  and  cries  mingled  with  laughter. 

Paul  Deschanteaux  tip-toed  in  vain  endeavor 
to  look  over  the  heads  of  those  in  front  of  him. 

"  What  is  it,  Georges  ? "  he  finally  asked  of  his 
taller  companion. 

"They're  burning  Judases  in  front  of  the 
Jockey  Club,"  replied  the  American,  "and  some 
of  the  members  are  throwing  silver  to  the  crowd 
from  the  balcony." 

Deciding,  after  a  few  vain  efforts  to  push 
through,  that  they  would  be  detained  too  long, 
the  two  friends  backed  out  of  the  crowd  and 
turned  into  the  Calle  de  Gante,  alone  now  in  this 
broad  street,  the  murmur  behind  them  growing 
fainter.  They  turned  the  block,  coming  out  at 
the  entrance  of  the  main  alley  of  the  Alameda, 


176  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

lined  with  chairs  and  covered  from  the  sun, 
people  swarming  therein,  and  the  military  band 
at  the  farther  end  rolling  down  full  notes,  a  son 
orous  background  to  the  cackle  and  laughter  of 
the  throng.  The  men  in  black  frock  coats,  light 
trousers,  French  silk  hats,  shamming  gravity. 
The  women  in  French  gowns  or  home-made 
imitations,  sparkling  with  feather,  flower,  and 
jewel  ;  the  graceful  rebozo  long  since  demode, 
and  relegated  to  the  back  stairs. 

The  two  nodded  gayly  to  passing  acquaint 
ances.  "  Adios,  Don  Jaime."  "  Como,  Pedro?" 
"  Buenos  dias,  Don  Tiburcio."  These  were  the 
limit  of  Deschanteaux'  Spanish — like  all  his  coun 
trymen  he  was  above  learning  any  language 
other  than  his  own,  excepting  under  circum 
stances  of  great  provocation. 

A  group  of  notaries  passed,  sedate,  and  there 
was  a  great  lifting  of  shining  silk  hats,  for  it 
must  be  remembered  that  in  this  town  every  one 
knows  every  one  else  (that's  worth  knowing). 
The  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court,  walking 


Jornada  I  177 

alone,  hands  behind  his  back,  buried  in  thought, 
carrying  the  Constitution  on  his  shoulders,  and 
prepared  to  cheerfully  violate  its  most  sacred  pro 
visions  at  the  nod  of  the  Executive.  He  lifted 
his  hat  gravely,  with  a  whispered  "Senores  !" 

One  of  the  notaries  detached  himself  from  the 
group,  and  touching  the  American  on  the  arm, 
beckoned  him  aside.  "Any  news  from  New 
York,  Don  Jorge?" 

"None,"  replied  the  American,  shaking  his 
head  wearily.  "  I  don't  think  there  ever  will  be, 
Velasco.  The  company  is  bankrupt,  and  in  the 
present  condition  of  the  money  market  cannot 
raise  another  dollar  for  working  capital." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do,  then,  pobre 
amigo  mio  ? "  inquired  the  notary,  his  round, 
fat  face  shining  with  sympathy. 

"  Sabe  Dios,"  replied  the  other.  The  notary 
glanced  back.  "Your  friend  Deschanteaux  is 
talking  with  Calvo  and  the  Russian.  I  won't 
detain  you  but  a  moment.  Listen.  I  have  a 
client,  Don  Cassio  Alvarez,  who  has  a  great  ha- 


178  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

cienda  in  Guerrero, — mines,  cattle,  plantation, 
everything.  His  last  steward  robbed  him  un 
mercifully  and  he  has  discharged  him.  He 
wants  an  American,  one  whom  he  can  trust. 
He  pays  three  hundred  pesos,  Mexican,  a  month 
and  ten  per  cent,  of  the  net.  He  will  be  here 
next  week,  and  I  thought  of  you.  Can  I  men 
tion  your  name  ?  " 

George  Forrest  grasped  the  notary's  hand  and 
shook  it  warmly. 

"Thanks,  amigo.  It  would  be  salvation  for 
me.  I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  do  not  know 
where  to  give  head." 

"  Es  nada,"  answered  the  good-humored  no 
tary,  shrugging  away  the  other's  gratitude. 
"  Apropos,  there  is  a  rendezvous  at  the  Tivoli  de 
San  Cosme  to-night.  Alberigo,  Escandor,  and 
others  ;  will  you  come?" 

"If  possible.     Thanks." 

"Hasta  luego,  then." 

The  two  separated,  and  Forrest  walked  on  to 
join  his  companion.  He  found  him  in  animated 


Jornada  I  179 

converse  with  Petroffski  and  Don  Calvo.  The 
former,  blond-bearded,  blue-eyed,  the  body  and 
hands  of  a  mougik,  a  touch  of  sentimentalism 
somewhere  about  the  face,  that  struggled  to  offset 
the  hard  shrewdness  of  the  Tartar  eyes;  a  queer 
mixture  of  Werther  and  wolf,  with  the  possibili 
ties  of  a  Tolstoi  and  the  probabilities  of  a  brute. 

Don  Calvo  was  a  type  of  the  Visigoth  run 
clear,  on  Spanish  ground,  of  Arabic  or  Jewish 
blood,  or  else  harked  back  in  a  spasm  of  atavism. 
Thickset  and  long-limbed,  with  reddish  blond 
hair  and  moustache,  and  eyes  that  shifted  from 
gray  to  steel  blue.  He  was  of  good  stock,  and 
had  his  father  left  him  a  fortune  he  would  have 
been  a  gentleman  ;  with  opportunities  he  might 
have  been  a  professional  gentleman  or  a  com 
mercial  gentleman  ;  with  capital  he  might  have 
drifted  along  any  of  the  accepted  channels  of 
thievery  yclept  trade,  and  been  a  credit  to  his 
country.  Lacking  these,  he  had  become  a  soci 
ety  broker,  giving  you  cheerfully  the  price  of 
anything,  from  a  horse  to  a  girl  with  dark  eyes, 


i8o  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

and  accepting  a  commission  gracefully,  as  a  loan. 
Always  ready  to  do  any  one  a  good  turn,  on  the 
principle  that  it  deserved  another.  He  was  tol 
erated  for  his  good  fellowship,  much  sought 
after  as  a  budget  of  news.  Not  a  scandal  but  he 
had  it  at  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  not  a  conjugal 
lapse  that  he  could  not  conjugate.  He  was  bet 
ter  than  a  Burke's  Peerage,  and  more  truthful,  for 
he  could  tell  the  relationship  of  every  man  and 
woman  in  town  to  the  Devil.  They  marvelled 
and  mumbled  at  his  memory. 

As  Forrest  drew  near,  Petroffski  hailed  him 
with  a  grunt  that  rumbled  into  a  laugh. 

"To  the  rescue,  Monsieur  Forrest  !  Deschan- 
teaux  is  engaged  in  his  usual  occupation  of 
damning  Mexico  with  ornamental  and  original 
aphorisms  that  were  new  and  startling  at  the 
epoch  of  the  deluge,  and  Calvo  is  no  match  for 
him." 

"And  what  new  evil  has  my  friend  Paul  dis 
covered  in  la  colonie  manquee  of  Napoleon 
the  Little?" 


Jornada  I  181 

"  Nothing  new,  mon  cher,  but  my  manner  of 
putting  it,"  answered  Deschanteaux,  turning  to 
Forrest.  "  The  two  principal  topics  of  conversa 
tion  in  every  European  capital  are,  as  you  know, 
politics  and  women.  Here  only  one  man  talks 
politics,  presumably  with  himself,  and  that  is  the 
President.  As  for  women,  il  n'y  en  a  pas."  He 
snapped  his  fingers  to  emphasize  the  void. 
"So  we  are  reduced  to  discussing  art  and  litera 
ture,  and  will  ultimately  be  forced  into  science 
and  theology.  Petroffski  is  threatening  us  with 
Tolstoi,  and  Calvo  is  ranting  about  some  fellow 
by  the  name  of  Picon,  who  it  seems  wrote  nov 
els — in  Spanish.  Yes,  mes  amis,  two  months 
more  of  this,  and  if  I  ever  reach  home,  and  you 
come  to  visit  me,  my  address  will  be  Charenton, 
third  cell  to  the  right,  main  corridor;  and  then," 
continued  Deschanteaux, — for  once  started  on 
this  topic  it  was  difficult  to  stop  him, — "every 
body  seems  to  have  the  amusing  and  laudable 
habit  of  dying  of  the  typhus.  Yesterday,  while 
I  was  taking  my  afternoon  walk  on  the  Paseo,  I 


1 82  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

met  a  dozen  men  whom  I  knew,  who  had  just 
died  of  the  typhus " 

"  What,  their  ghosts  ?"  inquired  Don  Calvo. 

"  Non,  gros  beta.  I  mean  each  of  them  had 
just  lost  some  relative  by  that  charming  disease. 
They  were  either  going  to  or  coming  from  funer 
als,  having  just  left  their  former  friend  in  pigeon 
hole  number  369.  N'est-ce  pas  que  c'est  gai, 
eh  ?  " 

Don  Calvo  stood  the  chaffing  good-naturedly. 

"Joking  aside,  Paul,"  said  Forrest,  " Calvo  is 
right  about  Octavio  Picon.  I  am  familiar  with 
almost  everything  in  the  way  of  novels  in 
European  literature,  but  I  assure  you  that  no 
pen  has  ever  drawn  a  more  exquisite  picture 
of  a  woman  than  Cristeta  in  Duke  y  Sabrosa. 
Am  I  not  right,  PetrofTski?" 

"You  are,  Forrest,"  replied  the  Russian. 
"But  such  women  only  exist,  unfortunately,  in 
the  imagination  of  the  novelist.  They  are 
poetical  myths.  Now  Tolstoi " 

"Pour  Tamour  de  Dieu,  Petroffski,  stop  Tol- 


Jornada  I 


183 


stoi  ! "  exclaimed  Deschanteaux.  "Do  you 
know " 

"Let  me  tell  you,  gentlemen,"  interposed 
Don  Calvo,  "I  knew  a  beautiful  woman  here 
once " 

"She's  dead,  of  course,"  interrupted  Deschan 
teaux. 

-Yes,  but " 

"I  knew  it,"  and  the  irrepressible  French 
man  began  to  hum: 

cf  II  penchait  pour  1'amour  physique 

Et  a  Rome,  sSjour  d'ennui, 

Une  femme,  d'ailleurs  phtisique, 

Est  morte  d'amour  pour  lui." 

"Is  that  original?"  queried  PetrofTski,  when 
the  laughter  had  subsided. 

"Yes— with  Charles  Baudelaire." 

"Seriously,  Deschanteaux,  can't  you  be  serious 
a  moment?"  asked  the  Mexican,  with  a  tinge 
of  impatience  in  his  tone. 

"No,  my  dear  friend,  I  can't.     If  I  were  seri- 


1 84  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

ous  for  five  consecutive  minutes  I  should  certainly 
catch  the  typhus.  Nothing  predisposes  one  so 
much  to  that  disease  as  being  serious.  Don't 
try  it,  my  dear  fellow;  if  you  value  your  life 
don't  try  it,  and  don't  talk  to  me  about  beau 
tiful  women.  It  gives  me  the  nostalgia.  I 
have  not  seen  one  since  I  left  Paris " 

"Hush!"  exclaimed  Don  Calvo,  in  a  sharp, 
sudden  whisper  to  the  three  who  stood  facing 
him.  "Don't  look  around,  don't  move!  In  a 
moment  I  will  show  you  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world,  to  say  nothing  of  Mexico. 
She  is  seated  directly  behind  you,  and  you 
cannot  look  around  now.  Let  us  go  over  to 
the  American  minister  and  see  him  a  moment, 
and  then  we  can  walk  by  her." 

They  looked  at  the  speaker  in  amazement, 
scarce  believing  what  he  said,  yet  there  was  no 
mistaking  his  tone.  Obediently,  and  success 
fully  resisting  the  temptation  to  look  behind 
them,  they  went  over  to  where  O'Brien  Mul- 
cahy,  the  diplomatic  representative  of  the  United 


Jornada  I  185 

States,  his  wife  and  two  daughters,  sat  watch 
ing  the  passing  crowd  and  listening  to  the 
music. 

"Tell  me,  Forrest,  are  all  American  ministers 
Irish?"  inquired  Petroffski  as  they  approached 
the  group. 

"Certainly." 

"And  your  President,  senators  and  deputies 
too?" 

"Yes,  all  of  them."  This  listlessly,  for  he 
had  been  weaned  by  much  questioning  upon 
home  topics  difficult  to  explain. 

"This  domination  of  the  Celtic  race  over  the 
Saxon  is  certainly  a  curious  historical  phenome 
non,"  said  the  Russian,  reflectively. 

The  American  minister  returned  the  salute  of 
the  four  gentlemen  with  the  diplomatic  grace  and 
dignity  he  had  acquired  during  his  many  years' 
experience  as  sheriff  in  a  town  in  Iowa.  His 
daughters,  healthy,  rosy-cheeked  girls,  bowed 
and  smiled  condescendingly,  with  a  suspicion 
in  manner,  however,  of  not  being  intimately 


1 86  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

acquainted  with  their  new  French  gowns,  and 
as  yet  unused  to  foreign  ways. 

''Had  the  latest  papers  yet?"  queried  the 
minister  of  Forrest.  "We've  got  the  other 
party  on  the  run,  and  as  sure  as  you're  alive, 
at  the  next  election  we'll  sweep  the  country!" 

Forrest  nodded  in  agreement.  He  did  not  care 
very  much  which  party  swept  the  country  so 
long  as  he  was  not  asked  to  carry  away  any  of 
the  dirt,  and  he  was  impatient  to  get  away. 

"You'll  come  to  our  reception  Tuesday 
night,"  said  Mrs.  Mulcahy  as  they  moved  away, 
"all  of  you." 

"Yes,  do,"  added  the  minister. 

They  accepted,  all  but  Deschanteaux,  who  had 
not  understood  a  word  of  the  conversation,  and 
had  been  nursing  a  contemptuous  wrath  for  dip 
lomats  who  could  not  speak  French. 

Under  the  guidance  of  Don  Calvo  they  strolled 
a  short  distance  up  the  shady  walk,  and  then 
wheeling  about,  two  by  two,  bore  down  on  the 
object  of  their  quest 


Jornada  I  187 

It  was  quite  needless  for  the  Mexican  to  nudge 
Deschanteaux  with  his  elbow  when  they  arrived 
in  front  of  the  lady.  It  would  have  been  no  hard 
task  to  have  singled  her  out  from  among  the 
twelve  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne.  As  they 
walked  by  they  had  but  a  single  glance,  and  lit 
tle  time  for  carping  details.  Against  the  back 
ground  of  dark  green,  sun-sprinkled,  they  saw  a 
figure  in  gray,  with  curve  of  bust  and  hip  which 
sculptors  would  have  sought  as  knights  the 
Holy  Grail.  A  face,  calm,  pure,  majestic,  sur 
mounted  by  a  coil  of  dark  brown  hair  crowned 
by  a  simple  toque  of  black  velvet,  relieved  only 
by  a  golden  spray  on  one  side.  The  eyes  they 
remembered  clearly,  two  wells  of  deep  blue, 
fathomless. 

To  their  astonishment  Don  Calvo  lifted  his  hat 
to  the  goddess,  whereupon  they  all  followed  suit, 
pleased  at  custom  permitting  this  obeisance. 
They  walked  on,  rounding  the  fountain,  and 
then  seized  Don  Calvo.  "  You  know  her,  then  ? 
It's  a  king's  privilege  !  Wretch  !  Who  and 


i88  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

what  is  she?  Speak,  or  we'll  throw  you  into 
the  basin.  Speak,  and  we'll  give  you  all  we 
have!" 

Don  Calvo  was  in  his  element.  He  swelled 
with  pride  and  expanded  with  satisfaction.  It 
would  not  do  to  yield  too  quickly,  however. 
He  paused  for  a  moment,  nodding  to  a  passing 
acquaintance;  and  then,  with  feet  spread  apart, 
swung  his  cane  to  and  fro  in  his  gloved  hand. 
At  last,  patience  of  others  to  breaking  point,  he 
quoth  sagely,  and  with  a  smacking  of  Sir  Oracle, 
"  Have  I  kept  my  word,  gentlemen  ?  " 

The  affirmations  were  as  of  a  well-trained 
chorus. 

"Well,  you  see  it  is  this  way.  To  begin  at 
the  beginning,  did  you  notice  the  respectable  old 
lady  who  sat  beside  her,  a  foil  in  yellow  ?  No  ? 
I  thought  not.  That  was  Madame  Schreiber, 
who  came  here  some  eight  years  ago  with  her 
husband,  an  American  engineer  employed  on  the 
National  Railroad.  He  died  a  year  later  and  his 
salary  died  with  him.  It's  a  question  which 


Jornada  I  189 

death  the  widow  regretted  the  more.  Deciding 
wisely  to  live,  she  opened  a  boarding-house  for 
Americans,  baked  them  pie  with  her  own  hands, 
and  flourished  exceedingly.  By  my  advice  (I 
speak  modestly,  gentlemen)  she  bought  a  barro 
in  the  Santa  Rosalia  mine  and  sold  out  at  the 
proper  time,  whereupon  she  gave  up  baking  pies 
and  took  a  villa  out  at  Tacubaya.  The  goddess 
is  her  niece,  who  came  from  your  country  "  (he 
nodded  to  Forrest)  "a  week  or  tx-n  days  ago. 
Voila  ! " 

"A  niece  of  Madame  Schreiber  is  indefinite," 
exclaimed  Deschanteaux.  "  Her  name,  her  line 
age?" 

"Her  name,  Alma  Lessing;  age,  twenty- 
four;  lineage,  her  father,  brother  to  Madame 
Schreiber,  was  a  coal  miner  in  Pennsylvania,  and 
married  a  Hungarian  woman, — daughter,  sister, 
or  something  of  another  miner." 

"And  how  do  you  know  all  this?"  asked 
Petroffski. 

"  I  called   on  the  old   lady  the    other   even- 


190  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

ing,  and  she  introduced  me  to  la  Senorita 
Alma  and  gave  m  the  family  history  from  A 
toZ." 

"All  of  which  means,  en  somme,"  said 
Petroffski  slowly,  "that  our  friend  Don  Calvo  y 
Ramirez  is  both  able  and  willing  to  introduce  us." 

"Certainement." 

Deschanteaux  glanced  down  the  long  line  of 
seats,  and  spied  the  black  velvet  toque  and  the 
gold  spray  gleaming  in  a  bit  of  sunlight. 

"Now?"  he  questioned. 

Don  Calvo  nodded,  and  they  strolled  back  to 
where  the  two  women  were  seated,  listening  to 
the  music,  the  younger  one  watching  the  pass 
ing  crowd  with  the  interest  of  one  to  whom  this 
land  was  new. 

Introductions  were  quickly  given.  Alma  ex 
tended  her  small  gray-gloved  hand  to  each,  cor 
dially,  with  a  gesture  that  was  grace  and 
strength.  One  guessed  muscles  of  iron  under 
the  soft  glove  and  softer  skin.  She  looked 
frankly  into  the  eyes  of  each  in  turn,  not  with 


Jornada  I  191 

the  boldness  of  a  woman  who  knows  men  too 
well,  nor  with  that  of  a  woman  to  whom  they 
will  never  be  known.  Rather  with  the  glance 
of  one  who  is  politely  curious  until  the  hour 
comes,  then  only  to  leap  into  flame. 

Madame  Schreiber,  clad  in  a  yellow  dress 
that  shrieked,  was  pleased  to  make  acquaintance 
of  men  whom  she  knew  stood  well,  and  she 
monopolized  volubly  in  bad  French,  propped  up 
here  and  there  by  worse  Spanish.  Her  lungs 
troubled  her  so — the  rarefied  air — she  felt  she 
must  go  to  San  Antonio  as  soon  as  her  lease  was 
up  in  June — her  house  was  at  Tacubaya,  Villa 
Dominguez— the  first  turn  to  the  right  after 
you  pass  the  great  gambling  hall— always  at 
home  evenings,  and  also  afternoons,  excepting 
Wednesday  and  Saturday,  when  they  drove  on 
the  Paseo — she  would  be  glad  to  have  them 
call,  sans  cere*monie. 

They  listened  to  her,  nodding  approvingly, 
with  now  and  then  a  "  mais  oui  "  or  a  "  c'est 
bien  vrai "  to  emphasize.  She  was  doorkeeper 


192  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

to  beauty,  and  hence  worthy  of  deep  regard. 
She  would  have  rattled  on  to  exhaustion  of 
breath  had  not  a  dozen  bells  each  given  a 
single  musical  note  on  different  keys.  "Him- 
mel  ! "  exclaimed  Madame  Schreiber,  rising  to 
her  feet.  "Es  la  una.  Mon  Dieu,  we  shall 
just  have  time  to  catch  the  tramcar.  We  shall 
be  late  for  dinner.  Adios,  Senores.  Villa 
Dominguez,  first  road  to  the  right  after  you 
pass  the  gambling  hall." 

She  trotted  away,  followed  by  her  niece,  who 
bowed  pleasantly  to  the  lowering  of  silk  hats. 
The  younger  woman  walked  with  light  step, 
as  if  moving  upon  smooth  joints  of  gold,  bend 
ing  rhythmically  to  the  music  of  flowing  life. 
Her  plain  gray  gown  hid  her  form  no  more 
than  clear  glass.  The  four  watched  her  until 
she  was  lost  to  view  in  the  surging  crowd. 

"  Bones,  flesh,  tissue,  bathed  in  blood  and 
air,"  murmured  Petroffski,  "and  the  result  is 
that!  And  yet  some  men  say  there  is  no 
God  ! " 


Jornada  II  193 

Paul     Deschanteaux     drew    a    long    breath. 
"Well,"  he  said,  " shall  we  dine?" 


Jornada  II 

A  week  later  the  city  had  resumed  its  work 
aday  look  of  moving  apathy.  Few  were  on 
the  broad  Plaza,  these  crossing  to  other  points. 
The  red,  yellow,  and  blue  wheeled  hacks  stood 
in  a  long  line,  drivers  and  horses  sleeping. 
There  was  buzzing  and  droning,  but  no  clatter 
nor  clash.  The  mules  dragging  the  tramcars 
stepped  quietly  and  lightly,  the  bells  as  if 
muffled.  The  tall  man  leaned  against  the  huge 
iron  railing  in  front  of  the  cathedral,  his  arms 
folded,  under  one  of  them  a  book.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  dark  blue  flannel  suit,  a  black  felt 
hat  pushed  back  over  a  mass  of  curling  hair 
with  a  silver  line  in  it  here  and  there.  His 
posture  was  not  one  of  grace,  rather  of  laziness 
with  a  touch  of  dejection.  He  was  surely 
deep  in  thought,  for  a  newsboy  had  twice  yelled 
13 


i94  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

"El  Democrata  ! "  and  flourished  the  paper 
under  his  very  nose,  and  a  brown-faced  girl 
had  offered  him  a  bunch  of  pink  roses,  only  a 
real,  mire  Vd.,  and  he  had  not  even  so  much 
as  blinked  at  them. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Forrest." 

The  words  roused  him,  and  he  looked  up. 
Before  him  stood  the  gray  figure  he  had  seen 
in  the  Alameda  seven  days  before,  a  gray- 
gloved  hand  extended,  the  deep  blue  eyes  look 
ing  straight  into  his.  He  took  the  hand  eagerly, 
reaching  after  his  hat,  which  threatened  to  fall 
backward. 

"You  look  as  if  the  fardel  of  life  were  heavy," 
she  said,  smiling. 

"Neither  heavy  nor  light,  Miss  Lessing;  only 
an  empty  cask.  One  can't  fly  with  it." 

"Why  not  fill  it,  then,  and  walk?  Your 
shoulders  are  broad  enough.  Only  those  wish 
to  fly  who  don't  know  the  earth  and  its 
treasures." 

"To  you  life  is  pleasant ? " 


Jornada  II  195 

"It  should  be  to  anyone  not  in  physical  pain. 
It  is  just  what  we  make  it,  after  all.  To  me  it 
is  full  of  beauty  and  joys  to  come.  I  have  faith 
in  the  future." 

"I  had  once,"  he  muttered. 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "Only 
God  has  the  right  to  be  a  cynic,  because  he 
alone  is  supposed  to  know  the  future.  But  tell 
me,"  she  added,  her  eyes  brightening  with 
mischievous  inquiry,  "why  is  it  that  you,  my 
own  countryman,  are  the  only  one  of  the  quar 
tette  who  has  not  been  to  see  me  ?  Your 
friends,  Messieurs  Deschanteaux,  Petroffski,  and 
the  accommodating  Don  Calvo  have  called 
several  times  and  paid  the  penalty  for  it  with 
numerous  games  of  cribbage,  for  my  aunt  is 
merciless.  Are  you  afraid  of  cribbage  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  and  a  smile  crept  into  his 
eyes.  Her  presence  was  warming  him  into 
life. 

"I  would  brave  even  that  to  see  you,"  he 
answered  with  mock  gallantry;  "but,"  he 


196  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

added,  -  those  who  would  fill  their  cask  with 
bubbling,  joyous  life  must  joust  right  merrily, 
and  my  armor  is  rusty  and  my  sword 
blunted." 

-Wherefore?" 

"I  met  the  black  knight  Disappointment  in 
the  lists  and  he  unhorsed  me.  By  the  way," 
he  added,  for  he  was  impatient  to  switch  the 
train  of  conversation  from  the  siding  of  him 
self,  where  it  threatened  to  run  into  a  swamp, 
to  the  main  line  of  generalities,  which  was 
smooth  and  had  no  end,  -have  you  ever  been 
upon  the  tower  ?  " 

She  craned  her  full  white  neck,  looking  up 
ward. 

-No.     One  must  have  a  beautiful  view." 

-Would  you  not  like  to  go  up  there?  We 
can  sit  there  and  chat  if  you  have  the  time." 

-I  am  not  Time's  slave,  but  he  waits  upon 
me.  I  never  sacrifice  my  liberty  of  action  nor 
of  impulse  to  Time  nor  to  Mrs.  Grundy. 
Allons." 


Jornada  II  197 

He  pulled  the  rope  that  hung  from  above  the 
little  wooden  door  that  led  to  the  spiral  stair 
case.  It  opened,  and  they  ascended,  she  first, 
lest  her  foot  slip  on  the  uneven  stairs ;  he  there 
to  catch  her,  wishing  a  slip.  Half  way  up 
they  passed  the  guardian,  and  Forrest  dropped 
silver  into  the  itching  palm.  They  emerged 
upon  the  platform,  out  of  breath,  for  the 
strongest  lungs  pant  after  short  effort,  at  this 
height  above  the  sea. 

She  gazed,  speechless  for  a  time,  at  the  white- 
topped  volcanoes,  the  broad  plain  of  Anahuac, 
the  placid  shimmering  lakes,  and  then  down  at  the 
broad  Plaza,  where  men  were  as  ants  moving. 
"The  impression  is  exquisite,"  she  said  at  last, 
when  she  had  caught  breath  and  speech,  "but 
weak.  It  lacks  character,  strength,  ruggedness. 
There  is  no  incentive  to  action  in  it  all.  The 
Hindoo  Buddha  on  the  lotus  flower,  chained 
eternally  to  contemplation,  would  be  more  fitting 
here  than  Thor  with  his  hammer.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  it's  a  question  of  atmospheric  pressure." 


198  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

He  nodded  approvingly.  "  Climate,  soil,  and 
aspect  of  nature  mould  the  races,"  he  said. 

"But  not  the  individual,"  she  interrupted 
quickly.  (<We  can  break  through  the  hard 
crusts  of  heredity  and  environment,  and  chal 
lenge  the  laws  and  powers  of  nature  to  combat. 
Call  it  spirit,  self,  what  you  will,  there  is  the 
kingdom  of  the  microcosm,  in  which  the  T  is 
overlord." 

She  was  looking,  as  she  spoke,  at  the  snowy 
cone  of  Popocatepetl,  as  if  addressing  it,  as  well 
as  the  man  who  leaned  over  the  railing  beside  her. 
He  looked  at  her  curiously,  with  a  sense  he 
knew  not  whether  of  disappointment  or  rebel 
lion.  Most  men  instinctively  hate  intellectuality 
in  women.  Their  ideal,  au  fonds,  is  the  harem. 
For  all  of  which  men  are  not  so  much  to  blame, 
for  in  climbing  the  heights  of  brain  development, 
women  of  our  land  usually  leave  sex  and  flesh  in 
the  valley,  only  the  skeletons  reaching  the  peak, 
there  to  grin  at  each  other  in  a  charnel-house. 

His  glance  fell  upon  the  book  she  held  in  her 


Jornada  II  199 

hand  and  he  read  the  title.  It  was  Duke  y 
Sabrosa  ! 

"You  are  reading  my  favorite  novel,  I  see," 
he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "and  because  it  is  your 
favorite  novel.  I  overheard  what  you  said  to 
Monsieur  Petroffski  about  it  in  the  Alameda,  for 
you  remember  I  was  seated  just  behind  you. 
1  determined  to  get  the  book  if  possible,  curious 
to  know  what  the  ideal  woman  of  such  a  man 
as  you  might  be." 

In  her  slight  emphasis  of  "man"  there  was 
Carlylian  contempt  of  mostly  fools  ;  her  distinc 
tion  of  him  was  flattering  to  his  pride. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  Cristeta  ?  " 

"Delicious  and  unique.  I  can  readily  see  how 
real  men  worship  such  women.  From  time  to 
time  women  have  given  all  for  love  of  men,  but 
they  are  few.  When  one  does,  and  the  love  is 
returned,  I  think  a  star  falls  into  the  diadem  of 
God." 

He    looked   at   her  again,    this  time  with   a 


200  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

strange  feeling  that  defied  analysis.  He  yearned 
to  know  whence  came  this  woman.  He  ques 
tioned  tentatively  :  "  You  speak  French  and 
Spanish  so  well,  you  must  have  lived  long  in 
Europe?"  Trite  but  effective. 

She  divined  his  thought.  "  I  am  an  enigma  to 
you,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  I  am  to  most  people,  though 
I  rarely  give  the  answer.  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
myself  you  would  care  to  know."  She  settled 
herself  down  comfortably  upon  the  broad  stone 
bench,  her  elbow  on  the  railing,  her  head  resting 
upon  her  hand,  and  started  as  one  drawing  a  full 
breath  for  a  long  run. 

"I  feel  like  a  chronicler.  To  begin.  I  was 
born  in  Pennsylvania.  My  father  was  a  German 
miner,  uneducated,  a  Hercules  in  strength,  good- 
natured  and  loving,  who  worked  his  eight-hours' 
shift  in  the  coal-pit,  and  thought  life  worth  living. 
He  married  the  sister  of  a  fellow  miner,  a  Hun 
garian.  She  was  a  sweet-faced  woman  with 
soft,  pleading  eyes.  I  can  see  her  now,  though 
perhaps  the  mist  of  years  has  dimmed  the 


Jornada  II 


201 


sharper  outlines.  We  lived  in  a  little  two- 
roomed  hut  that  was  not  always  fast  against 
wind  and  rain.  When  my  father  came  home 
and  had  washed  and  eaten,  he  would  take  me 
upon  his  knee  and  tell  me  the  story  of  Prince 
Charming.  How  the  Prince  came  at  last,  after 
weary,  wasted  years  of  waiting,  to  the  maiden 
who  loved  him.  He  was  always  mounted  upon 
a  handsome  charger  and  clad  in  all  manner  of 
glittering  array.  It  was  the  only  story  my  father 
knew,  and  I  never  tired  of  hearing  it.  There  was 
always  the  same  suspense,  doubt,  and  pain, 
flavored  to  some  sweetness,  though,  by  the  de 
licious  foreknowledge  that  it  was  to  jend  well. 
My  father  lacked  the  imagination  to  change  the 
facts  of  the  story ;  he  could  only  change  the  cos 
tume  of  the  Prince  and  the  color  of  his  horse. 
Sometimes  he  came  clad  in  silver  armor,  with 
mantelet  of  emerald  green;  in  gold  and  purple;  in 
steel  and  blue;  now  mounted  upon  a  black 
charger,  again  upon  one  milk-white;  but  always 
with  bag  of  gold  at  saddlebow,  from  which  he 


202  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

flung  largesse.  Poor  little  father!  It  was  the 
only  gold  he  ever  saw.  It  was  a  puzzle  to  my 
childish  mind  why  there  should  be  such  lengthy 
discussion  as  to  the  possibility  of  my  having  a 
new  pair  of  shoes  when  Prince  Charming  was 
scattering  largesse  a  deux  mains." 

There  was  nothing  in  this  tale  of  a  childish  tale 
to  make  a  mist  float  before  the  eyes  of  the  man 
listening.  Perhaps  something  in  the  tone  of  the 
soft,  musical  voice,  that  broke,  once  or  twice, 
under  the  weight  of  memory,  moved  him  more 
deeply  than  he  would  have  cared  to  own.  He 
sat  beside  her,  keenly  intent,  one  leg  crossed 
over  the  other,  his  hands  clasped  about  his  knee. 
They  were  alone  in  the  tower,  and  the  city 
seemed  to  have  sunk  farther  away. 

Feeling  a  sympathy,  in  the  Greek  sense  of  the 
word,  she  took  up  the  thread  and  went  bravely  on. 
"I  remember  well  it  was  my  high  ambition  at 
that  time  to  own  a  pair  of  shoes  and,  more  than 
all  else,  long  stockings  that  would  come  clear  up 
to  my  hips,  partly  because  they  would  be  so  beau- 


Jornada  II  203 

tiful,  I  thought,  and  partly  to  protect  my  bare  legs 
from  scratch  of  brier  and  thorn-bush.  But  that 
longing  was  never  gratified.  When  I  was  eight 
years  old  my  father  was  killed,  crushed  by  a  fall 
ing  mass  of  rock.  When  they  brought  him  home 
the  neighbors  gathered  around,  offering  help  to 
lay  out  the  dead,  but  my  mother  waved  them 
away  and  barred  them  out.  She  then  knelt  by  the 
body,  putting  one  arm  about  the  neck  of  him  she 
had  loved  in  life,  bringing  her  face  close  to  his. 
She  crooned  and  whispered  to  him,  and  as  the 
night  fell  fast,  I  became  afraid,  and  crept  from  the 
corner,  in  which  I  had  crouched,  to  the  bed.  The 
starlight  came  softly  through  the  window,  soon 
to  be  blotted  out,  for  black  clouds  were  banking 
up,  winged  by  the  north  wind.  Feeling,  I  found 
one  of  his  hands,  ah,  so  cold,  and  one  of  hers, 
warmer,  and  I  knelt  there  clasping  a  hand  of 
each  in  each  of  mine,  my  head  resting  upon  the 
bed.  My  mother's  crooning  and  whispering 
grew  lower,  and  I  think  I  must  have  slept  or 
fallen  into  a  stupor.  I  dreamed  that  the  room 


204  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

was  filled  with  an  intensely  yellow  light,  and 
that  my  father,  dim  and  indistinct  in  form  and 
face,  but  with  eyes  that  were  clear  and  had  a 
glory  in  them  I  have  never  seen  in  human  eyes, 
took  me  by  the  hand.  He  told  me  again  the 
story  of  Prince  Charming,  not  in  words,  but  as 
if  in  a  series  of  visions,  in  the  last  of  which  I  saw 
the  Prince,  dressed  in  blue,  and  his  face  was  a 
very  human  one,  never  to  be  forgotten.  Then  I 
saw  my  mother's  eyes  beside  my  father.  They 
wavered  a  moment  and  were  gone.  The  yellow 
light  went  out  too,  and  I  awoke  just  as  the  white 
dawn  was  creeping  in.  My  mother  lay  with  her 
head  upon  my  father's  breast.  The  room  was 
intensely  cold.  During  the  night  fine  snow, 
driven  by  the  wind,  had  sifted  in  through  the 
cracks  and  crannies  of  the  cabin  and  covered  the 
bed  and  those  who  were  upon  it  as  with  a  thin 
white  pall.  My  mother's  hand  was  cold  too. 
She  was  dead." 

She  had  said  these  last  words  very  softly,  her 
voice  sinking  to  a  whisper.     The   man  roused 


Jornada  II  205 

himself,  unclasped  his  hands  from  his  knee,  and 
taking  one  of  hers,  pressed  it  gently.  Her  musi 
cal  tones  had  lulled  him  into  a  dream  wherein  he 
had  seen  the  things  she  told  of,  as  visions  rising 
and  floating  by,  conjured  by  melody.  It  did  not 
surprise  him  that  she  should  tell  her  heart-secrets 
to  one  she  had  scarce  met  before,  for  he  well 
knew  that  affinity  is  a  link  that  time  does  not 
forge,  but  which  is  moulded  with  the  swiftness 
of  the  electric  spark,  upon  mere  contact,  and  one 
feels  that  it  is  but  the  physical  counterpart  of  a 
chain  that  has  been  for  ages. 

"Well,  after  that,"  she  continued,  with  new 
strength  in  her  voice,  and  as  if  opening  a  chapter 
with  less  pathos,  "a  good  woman  took  me  in 
for  a  couple  of  years  and  herded  me  kindly  with 
her  own  brood.  One  day  there  came  to  our  vil 
lage  a  troop  of  acrobats,  and  the  manager  hap 
pened  to  notice  me,  and  asked  to  have  me  join 
him.  He  would  teach  me.  It  was  at  the  time 
of  a  great  strike,  and  bread  was  scarce,  so  I  went, 
and  for  years  lived  a  strange  life  with  people  who 


206  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

were  not  cruel  to  me.  I  learned  to  perform  on 
the  trapeze,  to  sing  and  to  dance.  I  have  known 
what  it  is  to  tighten  my  belt,  on  going  to  bed,  to 
still  the  cries  of  hunger.  And  yet,  after  all,  it  was 
not  a  bad  life.  When  I  was  sixteen  I  had  wan 
dered  over  the  greater  part  of  Europe  and  our 
own  country.  Men  flocked  about  me,  offering 
gold  and  what  not,  and  I  would  have  yielded 
time  and  again,  perhaps  partly  from  desire  of 
change,  partly  from  the  cravings  of  sex,  but 
every  time  there  came  to  me  the  story  of  Prince 
Charming  as  told  by  my  father,  and  I  said  to  my 
self,  it  is  not  he  ;  some  day  he  will  come  and 
will  find  me  true  and  waiting.  Then  a  brother 
of  my  father,  who  had  been  a  professor  in  Leip- 
sic,  sought  me  out.  Through  the  death  of  a 
relative  he  had  come  into  possession  of  a  small 
fortune,  which  enabled  him  to  realize  the  dream 
of  his  life,  which  was  to  travel  and  meet  men 
great  in  science,  whom  he  had  before  known 
only  by  correspondence.  After  that  I  lived  and 
travelled  with  him  until  his  death,  which  oc- 


Jornada  II  207 

curred  last  year.  And  so  endeth  the  chroni 
cle." 

She  had  galloped  through  the  latter  part  of  her 
story,  impatient  to  have  it  over,  feeling  it  was 
too  long  and  lacked  climax. 

Her  companion  had  resumed  his  former  posi 
tion,  with  his  hands  clasped  about  his  knee.  He 
was  not  looking  at  her,  but  his  face  was  turned 
three  quarters  toward  her.  She  studied  his  feat 
ures  for  a  moment,  and  then  a  thought  seemed 
to  flash  upon  her.  She  grew  pale  to  the  lips, 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  left  breast  as  if  she 
would  compress  the  beating  of  her  heart.  The 
emotion  passed  quickly  away,  and  then  there 
came  into  her  eyes  a  look  of  infinite  gladness. 

He  was  thinking  of  this  woman  beside  him, 
born  in  a  hovel,  long  classed  as  one  of  the 
world's  outcasts,  steering  her  life-bark  with  a 
fairy  tale,  the  tiller  gripped  by  an  iron  hand, 
though. 

The  thought  broke  in  upon  his  musing  that  it 
was  his  turn  to  tell  of  himself.  He  rambled  on 


208  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

to  her,  a  tale  trite  enough,  bare  of  outer  things 
startling  (so  it  seemed  to  him,  though  she  lis 
tened,  wide-eyed). 

They  talked  on  till  the  shadows  fell,  and  the 
dark-faced,  wrinkled  guardian  peered  out  upon 
them  from  the  door  which  led  to  the  stairway, 
wondering  what  two  could  do  in  a  tower,  thus 
long. 

The  man  and  woman  descended  and  walked 
together  across  the  great  square.  On  the  south 
erly  side  of  it,  where  her  car  passed,  she  turned 
and  put  out  her  hand. 

"Good-by  until  tomorrow  only,"  she  said. 
"I  will  expect  you  at  my  aunt's  at  eight.  There 
will  be  quite  a  crowd  there,  but  you  shall  not 
play  cribbage.  We  will  find  time  for  a  chat. 
Adios." 

"  Yes,  I  will  surely  be  there." 

He  pressed  her  hand,  helping  her  at  the  same 
time  to  mount  the  step  of  the  waiting  car.  As 
it  moved  off  she  turned  and  bowed  to  him 
again  from  the  platform.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and 


Jornada  III  209 

then  walked  up  the  Plateros  toward  the  Con- 
cordia,  where  it  was  his  custom  to  dine  on  a 
chop  or  steak,  a  tortilla  of  black  frijoles,  and  a 
pint  of  Pyrenean  wine, 

Jornada  III 

The  Villa  Dominguez,  Tacubaya, — first  road  to 
the  right  after  you  pass  the  gambling  hall, — was 
alight  and  ablaze. 

A  square  two-storied  house  with  stuccoed 
walls,  set  in  the  middle  of  an  acre  of  palmettoes 
and  cacti,  with  here  and  there  a  gigantic  nogal, 
giving  shade  grateful  at  noonday.  Here  and 
there  a  plaster  statue  gleamed  white  against  the 
dark  green  background  of  leaves  patched  with 
fragments  of  dark  blue  sky.  For  this  night 
lamplets,  glasses  filled  with  oil  in  which  floated 
a  burning  wick,  had  been  placed  among  the 
branches  and  in  the  centre  of  huge  century 
plants,  glimmering  like  weak  fireflies. 

Carriages  and  hacks  drove  up  to  the  arched 
14 


210  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

gateway,  and  many  men  and  some  few  women 
emerged  therefrom  and  walked  up  the  gravelled 
path  to  the  glaring  doorway.  In  the  drawing- 
room,  hideous  with  a  set  of  American  furniture 
which  sprawled  over  a  crimson  carpet  that  was 
like  unto  a  pool  of  blood,  Madame  Schreiber  re 
ceived  her  guests  with  subdued  enthusiasm  and 
much  mixture  of  tongues,  Don  Calvo  beside  her, 
master  of  introductions. 

"Senora  Schreiber,  my  friend  Pepe  Taluno  ; 
La  Senora  Schreiber,  Pepito. " 

They  swarmed  in,  these  youthful  Mexicans, 
each  having  loaned  Don  Calvo  y  Ramirez  a  con 
siderable  sum  for  this  invitation  and  introduction, 
the  fame  of  the  niece  having  spread  far  and  wide. 
Such  a  harvest  had  the  accommodating  gentle 
man  never  dreamed  of,  and  his  popularity  had 
waxed  with  his  purse. 

Madame  Schreiber  had  never  dared  to  hope 
for  such  social  eminence,  and  looked  upon  Don 
Calvo  with  favor;  and  Alma  Lessing  herself, 
though  aware  of  his  weaknesses,  smiled  upon 


Jornada  III  211 

him  with  the  indulgence  of  one  whom  some 
thing  neither  pleases  nor  bores.  She  cared  lit 
tle  for  the  adulation  of  which  she  was  the 
object,  but  her  aunt's  enjoyment  was  so  un 
bounded  and  childishly  frank,  that  her  niece 
had  not  the  heart  to  thwart  the  good  lady's 
plans  for  forming  a  salon  in  Tacubaya  after  the 
manner  of  celebrated  women  about  whom  she 
had  read. 

Some  things  move  more  rapidly  in  Mexico  than 
in  other  lands,  and  within  a  week  Alma  had 
had  a  half  dozen  offers  of  marriage,  and  one 
of  love  and  affection— the  latter  from  Deschan- 
teaux,  one  of  the  former  from  Petroffski.  While 
she  refused  the  Russian,  she  had  kept  his 
friendship  and  a  dog-like  devotion  that  was 
boundless;  the  Frenchman  had  ground  his  teeth 
and  permitted  himself  to  say  some  brutal  things 
under  the  lash  of  her  sarcasm.  She  was  not 
offended  that  he  had  asked  her  to  be  his  mis 
tress,  for  like  many  women  of  strong  passions 
and  intellectual  development,  she  cared  little 


212  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

whether  a  ceremony  tied  her  to  the  man  she 
loved.  She  had  felt,  for  opportunity  for  judg 
ing  from  actions  had  been  lacking,  that  his 
character  was  as  small  as  his  stature,  and  she 
had  sped  her  shaft  at  the  fatuous  presumption 
and  insolent  assurance  which  were  as  twin 
pedestals  to  the  man's  words.  It  had  bitten 
deep,  this  shaft,  and  the  wound  yet  rankled 
within  him,  but  he  had  plastered  it  over  with 
a  laugh,  and  continued  to  call  at  the  Villa 
Dominguez,  received  good-naturedly.  Unques 
tionably  in  love  with  her,  as  he  had  never  been 
before  with  womankind,  he  had  a  faint  hope 
in  a  long  siege,  and  in  the  meantime  he  would 
make  it  unpleasant  for  any  man  to  whom  she 
might  show  favor,  a  curious  balm  for  the  wound 
of  unrequited  love  which  men  of  Gallic  race 
have  indulged  in  from  time  to  time  before  the 
worms  have  eaten  them. 

This  night  Deschanteaux  sat  beside  Alma  upon 
the  straight-backed,  uncomfortable  sofa,  a  chal 
lenge  in  his  half-closed  eyes  and  thin-lipped 


Jornada  III  213 

mouth  for  every  one  of  the  black-coated  men 
who  formed  a  solid  half  circle  about  this  fair 
woman.  Among  these  were  Mexicans,  a  French 
man  or  two,  a  German  count  who  had  accepted 
the  one  alternative  of  peddling  life  insurance 
policies  for  a  living,  the  other  one  being  star 
vation  ;  an  Englishman  who  had  travelled  and 
had  not  forgotten  it;  an  American  author  cele 
brated  for  writing  proper  and  pretty  things  that 
were  as  crisp  pie  to  every  good  household  in 
the  land.  The  conversation  twisted  from  Spanish 
into  French,  dropping  now  and  then  into  Eng 
lish,  for  the  celebrated  traveller  had  never  really 
thrown  off  the  shackles  of  Ollendorf,  while  the 
pleasant  author  pretended  to  no  language  but  his 
own. 

A  few  tables  were  about  the  room,  at  one  of 
which  old  General  Bisbee,  the  senior  of  the 
American  colony,  was  deeply  engaged  in  a  game 
of  cribbage  in  company  with  his  son-in-law  and 
a  red  lady  in  green.  In  another  corner  were  two 
women,  the  one  tall,  angular,  bare-armed,  and 


214  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

d£colletee,  undeniably  homely,  and  equally  thor 
oughbred  ;  the  other  small,  plump,  with  pink 
and  white  complexion,  and  hair  that  was  the 
color  of  new  hemp.  The  former  was  the  wife 
of  an  English  gentleman  who  had  heavily  in 
vested  some  one  else's  money  in  a  rich  gold 
mine,  and  had  gone  West  to  examine  into  the 
matter,  leaving  his  wife  stranded  in  Mexico  to 
kill  time  as  best  she  might  ;  the  latter  was  help 
meet  to  a  Protestant  missionary,  a  good  man 
from  Ohio,  who  had  striven  bravely  many 
years  to  make  a  convert  from  among  these 
heathen. 

"Lady  Mackelroy,"  said  the  plump  one  to 
her  companion,  casting  a  timid  look  toward  the 
corner  where  Alma  sat,  "do  you  think  she  is 
— a — perfectly  respectable  ?  " 

"Who?  Alma  Lessing  ?  Quite  so.  Did 
you  think  she  was  a  tart,  Mrs.  Sommers  ?  "  and 
Lady  Mackelroy  let  fall  her  fan  of  black  ostrich 
feathers  upon  her  knee  and  gazed  at  the  little 
woman  with  indulgent  curiosity. 


Jornada  III  215 

"A — a — what?"  ventured  Mrs.  Sommers. 

"Oh  !  I  said  a  tart." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  that  is?" 

"Certainly.  It  is  the  latest  London  slang  for 
a  woman  who  has  divorced  most  of  the  thirty- 
nine  articles,  and  who  lives  half  according  to 
the  dictates  of  nature,  and  half  according  to  the 
bank  accounts  of  her  admirers.  One  can't  really 
define  a  slang  term,  you  know;  one  must  feel 
it.  No,"  added  Lady  Mackelroy,  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause,  during  which  the  little  woman 
was  studying  out  this  definition,  "Alma  Les- 
sing  is  quite  good  form,  I  fancy.  I  heard  of  her 
in  London  last  season,  though  I  did  not  meet 
her  there,  and  she  visited  some  very  good 
people.  What  made  you  think  she  was — how 
did  you  put  it? — not  respectable?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Sommers,  meekly. 
"Only  she  dresses  so  curiously  and  is  so— so 
easy  in  her  manners." 

The  English  woman  raised  her  lorgnette  to  her 
eyes,  and  after  studying  Mrs.  Sommers  for  a 


216  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

moment,  "My  dear  Mrs.  Sommers,"  she  said, 
"that  is  a  Greek  gown  somewhat  modified,  a 
costume  not  one  woman  in  a  thousand  can  wear 
with  grace.  I  admit  that  her  total  lack  of  jewelry 
is  immodest,  and  as  for  the  way  she  attracts  men, 
that  is  simply  criminal." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  replied  Mrs.  Sommers,  with 
approving  emphasis.  Lady  Mackelroy  heaved  a 
little  sigh,  hid  her  face  for  a  moment  behind  the 
black  ostrich  feathers,  to  conceal  either  a  yawn  or 
a  smile,  and  then  glanced  toward  the  doorway. 
There  she  spied  a  man  who  had  just  come  in, 
and,  after  looking  around  for  the  hostess  and  fail 
ing  to  find  her,  was  leaning  against  the  wall, 
with  folded  arms,  seemingly  bored. 

Lady  Mackelroy  whispered  to  Mrs.  Sommers, 
"Who  is  that  man  over  there  by  the  door? 
He  looks  like  a  sleepy  lion." 

"That  is  Mr.  Forrest,  a  New  Yorker,  a  mining 
engineer.  He  has  been  quite  unfortunate.  He 
is  real  nice." 

"Ugh!"  muttered  Lady  Mackelroy  to  herself; 


Jornada  III  217 

"the  idea  of  calling  a  man  of  that  size  'real 
nice.' ' 

Forrest  knew  that  Alma  Lessing  was  behind 
the  semi-circle  of  black-coats  which  he  saw  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room.  To  attempt  to  ap 
proach  her  would  be  awkward,  so  he  preferred 
to  remain  where  he  was  until  she  should  see 
him.  His  patience  was  not  tried,  for  Alma,  re 
membering  his  promise,  was  alert  to  his  incom 
ing.  For  much  thinking  of  him  she  had  scarce 
heard  the  English  traveller's  description  of  Borneo; 
did  not  smile  when  he  said,  with  great  impres- 
siveness,  "  Les  habitants  sont  des  cannibaux  qui 
mangent  la  viande  humaine;"  and  a  tale  of  weird 
adventure  in  the  craters  in  the  breasts  of  the  great 
Ixtaccihuatl,  told  by  a  tragic-looking  Mexican, 
had  failed  to  interest  her.  More  than  one  had 
noticed  that  she  was  distraite. 

"Will  you  excuse  me,  gentlemen?  There  is 
a  compatriot  of  mine  over  there  whom  I  wish 
to  speak  to."  She  rose,  and  they  moved  their 
chairs  hastily  to  make  way  for  her. 


2i8  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

When  she  had  passed  beyond  them  Deschan- 
teaux  turned  fiercely  to  Petroffski.  "I  thought 
you  told  me  Forrest  had  never  called  here,"  he 
whispered. 

The  Russian  shrugged  his  big  shoulders.  "I 
did  not  know  he  had  seen  her  since  that  Satur 
day  on  the  Alameda;  but  we  do  not  own  her, 
mon  cher,  and  it  is  no  business  of  ours  whom 
she  sees." 

"I'll  make  it  my  business,"  muttered  Deschan- 
teaux;  and  then,  after  a  moment's  observation, 
he  added,  "She  is  going  out,  evidently  for  a 
walk  in  the  garden  ;  suppose  we  play  ecarte 
until  she  comes  back.  Hola,  Escandor,  will  you 
take  a  hand  at  ecarte*  ?  " 

Unimpressionable  as  he  was  in  his  present 
listless  mood,  Forrest  could  not  but  be  struck  by 
the  beauty  of  the  woman  who  advanced  toward 
him.  She  was  clad  in  a  white  drapery,  sleeve 
less,  and  wore  not  a  single  jewel  of  any  kind, 
more  for  the  reason  that  she  had  none  than  from 
any  affectation  of  simplicity.  She  would  cheer- 


Jornada  III  219 

fully  have  worn  a  queen's  diadem,  but  only  the 
tawdry  would  have  been  within  the  reach  of  her 
purse.  She  passed  her  hand  under  Forrest's  arm. 
"Let  us  walk  outside  a  while,"  she  said;  "I  am 
suffocating  in  here.  You  were  good  to  come." 

"Glad  to  come,  you  mean,"  he  replied.  "  I 
am  late  ;  but  this  by  reason  of  the  breakdown  of 
my  car.  I  was  compelled  to  walk  the  greater 
part  of  the  way." 

They  went  out  into  the  garden,  full  of  green 
blades  and  glimmering  lamplets  that  warned  of 
the  sharp  points.  By  a  plaster  statue  of  Diana 
Huntress,  accompanied  by  the  usual  impossible 
dog,  was  an  iron  bench. 

"Let  us  sit  here  a  while,"  she  said;  "how 
deliciously  cool  the  air  is,  almost  sharp  !  Per 
haps  the  wind  is  blowing  from  the  white 
mounds  of  Ixtaccihuatl." 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  bench  beside  her. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  left  a  dozen  or  two  enemies 
in  the  room,"  he  said,  with  a  careless  laugh. 
"You  seem  to  be  obsede"e  to-night." 


220  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

"It's  the  usual  thing,"  she  answered,  quietly, 
"and  I  assure  you  I  do  not  enjoy  it  particularly. 
I  am  what  is  called  a  man's  woman,  and  I  sup 
pose  they  like  to  talk  to  me,  or  at  me,  or  for  me, 
as  the  case  may  be.  Sometimes  I  think  Us  se 
pavanent.  There  was  no  one  there  to-night  who 
interested  me,  excepting  Petroffski,  whom  I  like. 
Your  friend  Calvo  is  une  bonne  bete,  and  I  am 
not  sorry  to  be  of  service  to  him  in  lining  his 
coffers.  As  for  Deschanteaux,  I  despise  him." 
She  said  these  last  words  without  any  shade 
of  anger  in  her  tone,  as  she  would  have  spoken 
of  the  weather. 

Forrest  condensed  his  interrogation  and  in 
terest  into  one  word,  "Deschanteaux?" 

She  caught  the  key  and  hedged  a  little,  for  his 
sake,  for  it  was  more  in  her  character  to  strike 
where  she  would.  "Is  he  a  good  friend  of 
yours?" 

"I  scarcely  know.  I  have  known  him  since 
he  was  a  child  of  six,  and  am  rather  fond  of 
him.  We  were  at  the  Lycee  together.  I  was 


Jornada  III 


221 


an  orphan  and  without  friends.  His  mother 
was  kind  to  me."  He  glanced  up  at  the  four 
posts  of  Pacari  Tambo,  and  as  if  this  contem 
plation  of  bright  stars  induced  Aurelian  medi 
tation,  he  continued  aloud:  "Friendship  is  a 
peculiar  thing.  It  can  hardly  be  said  to  exist 
to-day  as  it  did  in  Greece  or  Rome  or  even  in 
the  middle  ages.  It  is  now  but  a  cobweb  chain 
at  best,  and  money  or  woman  may  cleave  it 
as  Saladin's  cimeter  did  the  silk  handker 
chief." 

His  tone  aroused  her  sympathy.  ''You  like 
him.  I  should  not  have  spoken  as  I  did.  But, 
believe  me,  his  nature  is  incapable  of  friendship 
as  of  love.  He  is  to  me  a  pretty,  petulant  child, 
malicious  to  an  incredible  degree.  I  only  say 
this  because  something  tells  me  he  is  more  your 
enemy  than  your  friend." 

"I  fear  he  has  offended  you,"  replied  Forrest. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  a  light  laugh,  "it  is  I 
who  have  offended  him.  It  is  difficult  to  offend 
me.  I  care  too  little  for  others,  as  a  rule,  to  be 


222  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

moved  by  their  opinions  or  the  expression  of 
them.  He  amused  me  a  while.  Now  he  bores 
me." 

They  were  silent  for  a  time.  The  moon  had 
risen  and  was  throwing  its  silver  sheen  over  the 
white  Diana  and  the  impossible  dog,  the  bayo 
nets  of  the  palmettoes  and  the  curved  leaves 
of  the  cacti  ;  the  lamplets  dimming  to  yellow 
specks  in  these  white  rays.  The  soft  strains  of 
Sobre  las  Olas,  played  by  the  excellent  band 
in  the  gardens  of  the  gambling-hall,  rolled 
through  the  still  air  toward  them,  full  and  sonor 
ous.  Forrest  felt  as  if  the  sound  rippled  the 
moonlight  into  waves,  he  floating  thereon,  into 
the  Nirvana  of  nothing,  whither  he  had  listed  so 
much  of  late.  It  was  dimly  strange  to  him  that 
he  should  be  so  unmoved  beside  the  one  woman 
who  was  so  like  unto  the  ideal  he  had  wrought 
out  in  idle  hours.  He  had  a  vague  feeling  that 
he  ought  to  care  for  her;  that  any  one  else  would 
think  it  quite  extraordinary  that  he  did  not;  but 
caring  for  anything  was  altogether  too  much 


Jornada  III  223 

exertion  anyway.  He  wished  he  had  some  life, 
strength,  passion,  energy,  wondering  dumbly 
whither  they  had  all  gone.  Easier  to  float  than 
think,  after  all;  to  sway  on  the  waves  of  light 
and  sound. 

She  could  but  marvel  at  what  manner  of  man 
this  was,  this  listless  giant.  Surely  she  had 
recognized  the  face  she  had  seen  in  her  vision  in 
the  hut  years  ago;  yet  this  was  not  the  way  the 
prince  should  have  come  to  claim  her.  Dreams 
are  but  half  true  at  best.  She  had  divined  from 
what  he  had  told  her  of  himself  in  the  tower  how 
the  fire  of  energy  had  been  quenched  under  dis 
appointment,  until  there  scarce  remained  a  glow 
ing  ember;  but  this  she  would  fan  into  flame,  she 
would  sting  him  into  action,  rouse  within  him 
the  strength  she  believed  but  slumbered. 

His  mood  of  silence  was  contagious.  She  too 
stared  at  the  moon,  blankly.  This  orb  was  now 
to  her  as  a  crystal  ball  of  the  Rosicrucians, 
whereon  she  saw  pictures  of  the  past  and  future, 
these  latter  formed  by  hope.  Yet  was  she  aware 


224  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

that  there  was  a  current  between  them,  an  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  sub-conscious,  building  deep  and 
strong  and  lasting,  to  which  words  would  have 
been  but  as  the  chatter  of  apes  to  the  undersong 
of  the  sea. 

How  long  they  sat  thus  she  knew  not,  for  she 
had  ceased  to  hear  the  dull  tread  of  time,  and 
was  seeing  the  moon  now  trebled  through  a  tear, 
when  her  aunt's  voice  called  loud  and  sharp  : 

"Alma,  Almita,  donde  estas?  Come  in.  We 
are  going  to  have  a  game  of  cribbage  with  the 
General." 

She  felt  as  one  who,  dreaming  upon  a  flowered 
bank,  has  rolled  off  into  a  ditch.  Forrest  started, 
shame-faced,  stung  into  movement  by  the  feel 
ing  that  he  was  a  loathsome  thing.  With  a 
swift  motion  he  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 
"  I  think  I  am  a  ruined  man,  Alma.  Of  all  those 
in  that  room,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  lamp- 
flaming  windows,  "there  is  none  so  worthless 
as  I." 

She  stood  fronting  him  in  the  white  light,  the 


Jornada  III  225 

most  glorious  figure  of  a  woman  he  had  ever 
seen,  and  in  her  eyes  was  an  expression  any 
man  but  himself  would  have  read,  and  then 
thanked  God  for  life.  She  would  not  speak  the 
words  that  rose  to  her  lips.  If  he  could  not 
feel  what  she  would  say  it  had  better  be  left 
unsaid,  for  the  nonce.  She  put  her  hand  on 
his  arm  and  they  strolled  back  to  the  house. 
At  the  door  he  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass. 

Deschanteaux  sat  at  a  table,  holding  some 
cards  in  his  hand,  and  when  Forrest  and  Alma 
Lessing  entered  he  looked  up  at  them  and  the 
corners  of  his  thin  lips  drew  down  into  a  sneer. 
"Tiens,"  he  said  to  his  companion  in  a  tone 
that  could  be  heard  throughout  the  room, 
designating  Forrest  with  a  backward  move 
ment  of  his  hand  :  ''Monsieur  has  evidently 
been  enjoying  himself  in  the  moonlight.  II  a 
1'air  d'un  coq  en  pate."  His  voice  was  a  jeer; 
it  cut  like  a  saw  into  the  flesh.  The  others 
knew  it  meant  an  insult,  deep  and  incurable, 
levelled  at  both  the  man  and  the  woman.  It 
15 


226  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

rang  the  death-knell,  probably,  of  one  of  these 
two  men,  in  a  land  where  nought  but  blood 
can  polish  anew  a  tarnished  shield. 

Every  eye  was  fixed  on  the  tall  American. 
There  was  upon  his  face  seemingly  neither 
annoyance  nor  anger.  He  walked  slowly  and 
carelessly  toward  Deschanteaux,  and  there  was 
suspicion  of  drawl  in  his  tone  as,  stopping  at 
the  table  whereat  the  Frenchman  sat,  he  said, 
very  quietly:  "You  forget  where  you  are, 
Paul.  Your  remarks  are  in  exceedingly  bad 
taste." 

He  then  turned  away  and  crossed  the  room 
to  where  Alma  stood  leaning  against  the  back 
of  a  chair.  "Good  night,"  he  said,  and  then 
added  in  a  lower  tone  :  "lam  sorry  to  have 
brought  this  upon  you.  You  see  I  am  always 
in  bad  luck.  I  think  I  had  better  go  away  now 
to  avoid  any  more  unpleasant  scenes.  I  know 
his  character.  He  is  not  fully  responsible  for 
all  he  says." 

"Good  night."    She  pressed  his  hand,  and 


Jornada  III  227 

for  a   moment  her  features   relaxed  again  into 
the  look  she  had  given  him  in  the  garden. 

When  Forrest  had  taken  leave  of  Madame 
Schreiber,  now  trembling  like  a  leaf  in  a  breeze, 
and  muttering  under  her  breath  an  endless 
series  of  "Ach!  Gott  im  Himmels!"  and  the 
door  had  closed  behind  him,  Alma  Lessing 
walked  over  to  Deschanteaux  and  stood  facing 
him,  her  bare  arms  folded.  He  rose  from  his 
seat  as  she  came  toward  him,  the  same  jeering 
mask  upon  his  face.  The  woman  towered 
several  inches  above  the  man.  Her  eyes 
glittered  with  suppressed  anger,  but  her  voice 
was  cold  and  hard,  though  the  effort  to  keep 
it  so  was  perceptible.  "Monsieur  Deschan 
teaux,"  she  said,  "this  is  the  second  time 
you  have  insulted  me  in  my  own  house.  I  am 
not  une  grande  dame,  as  you  know,  but  a  plain 
woman  of  the  people,  and  from  childhood  have 
been  compelled  to  defend  myself,  and  I  have 
never  given  any  one  else  the  right  to  defend 
me.  I  have  tolerated  your  presence  here  and 


228  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana. 

overlooked  your  petulance  as  I  would  that  of  a 
boy.  Now,  Monsieur  Deschanteaux,  will  you 
leave  this  house  of  your  own  accord,  or  put  me 
to  the  unpleasant  task  of  picking  you  up  and 
throwing  you  out?"  She  spoke  in  French, 
clearly  and  distinctly;  and  all  present,  watching 
breathlessly  this  bit  of  tragic  comedy,  could 
see  the  muscles  of  her  round  white  arms  swell 
and  the  two  red  classic  bows  of  her  lips  press 
tightly  together,  her  whole  form  quivering  for 
physical  action.  They  well  knew  that  for  a  good 
part  of  her  life  she  had  trusted  to  the  strength 
of  those  arms  for  a  living,  and  there  was  not  a 
man  there  who  did  not  believe  her  able  to  carry 
out  that  which  she  threatened.  She  was  of  the 
stamp  of  those  Teutonic  women  of  old,  great 
white  bodies  crowned  with  hair  of  reddish 
gold,  defending  broken  camp  with  spear  and 
arrow  against  short  sword  and  round  buckler, 
women  upon  whose  white  breasts  warriors 
slept,  passion-tired — so  thought  the  American 
author  to  whom  now  and  then  came  ideas  he 


Jornada  III  229 

did  not  insert  in  his  home  and  fireside  series, 
for  his  name  guaranteed  ignorance  to  innocence. 

So  perfect  was  the  conviction  that  this  woman 
could  take  care  of  herself  that  not  even  Petroff- 
ski,  who  worshipped  the  ground  touched  by  her 
slippered  foot,  moved  from  his  seat  to  her  assist 
ance.  Deschanteaux  did  the  only  thing  possible 
under  the  circumstances.  He  bowed  in  silence 
and  walked  out. 

"He'll  kill  that  big  American,"  said  the  Eng 
lish  traveller  to  General  Bisbee. 

"  If  he  can,"  chuckled  the  General. 

It  was  getting  late,  and  soon  most  of  the 
guests  came  forward  to  take  leave  of  the  two 
women.  Alma  was  quiet  and  easy,  as  if  nothing 
worth  remembering  had  occurred,  but  her  aunt 
was  prey  to  conflicting  emotions.  She  saw  her 
prospective  salon  ruined  by  this  contretemps. 
"C'est  bien  dommage,"  she  said  to  every  one  ; 
and  every  one  said,  "Ah,  oui,"  without  quite 
knowing  to  what  part  of  it  all  she  alluded. 

"Don't  you  think  it  rather — ah— forward  of 


230  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

her,  Lady  Mackelroy  ?"  queried  Mrs.  Sommers, 
tentatively,  as  these  two  adjusted  their  cloaks  in 
the  ante-room. 

"Oh,  certainly  !"  replied  her  ladyship,  knot 
ting  a  white  hood  under  her  chin  ;  "the  proper 
thing,  if  anything,  would  have  been  for  her  to 
have  screamed  or  wept,  or  to  have  gracefully 
swooned  away  in  close  proximity  to  the  best- 
looking  man  in  the  room.  How  tickled  poor  Sir 
John  would  have  been  to  have  witnessed  this." 

When  Forrest  left  the  Villa  Dominguez  he 
walked  to  the  terminus  of  the  tramway  and  per 
ceived  a  car  just  coming  in,  which  meant  that  it 
would  not  leave  again  city-ward  for  half  an 
hour.  He  was  undecided  whether  he  would 
not  walk,  but,  concluding  to  ride,  entered  the 
car  and  sat  down  in  one  corner.  A  few  mo 
ments  later  he  heard  voices,  and  some  of  the 
guests  of  Madame  Schreiber,  in  company  with 
Don  Calvo,  all  talking  at  once,  came  into  the 
car.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  smoky  oil  lamp 
Forrest  was  not  recognized  by  the  newcomers, 


Jornada  III  231 

for  his  dress  suit  was  covered  by  a  gray  over 
coat,  his  slouch  hat  drawn  down  over  his  eyes. 

"Oigame  Vd.,"  said  Don  Calvo,  excitedly 
shaking  his  finger  at  one  of  his  companions,  "  I 
tell  you  his  conduct  was  unpardonable.  Had  he 
been  justified  in  any  grudge  against  Don  Jorge 
he  should  have  waited  until  some  other  time  and 
place." 

"Que  mujer !  hombre  ! "  wedged  in  Escan- 
dor,  rolling  a  cigarette,  "did  anyone  ever  see 
such  a  goddess  ! " 

"Moralles  told  me  that  Deschanteaux  said,  as 
he  got  into  his  carriage,  that  he  would  kill  Sefior 
Forrest  before  forty-eight  hours,  though  the 
American  will  stand  more  provocation  than  any 
man  living." 

"Yes,  yes,"  interjected  a  short,  dark  boy, 
eager  to  tell  what  he  knew.  "Listen,  Senores. 
You  remember  the  duel  between  Jose  Latour  and 
Hidalgo  some  two  months  ago  ?  Bueno.  The 
next  day  I  was  at  the  baths,  and  Don  Jorge 
Forrest  was  in  the  steamroom,  and  we  were 


232  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

talking  of  this,  and  he  said  that  in  his  part  of 
America  duels  were  never  fought,  and  that  the 
practice  was  silly  and  childish." 

"Bah!"  replied  Escandor,  "he  must  fight. 
These  American  ideas  don't  go  here.  Not  a 
man  nor  a  woman  in  Mexico  would  ever  speak 
to  him  again.  He  must  fight  or  leave  town  by 
the  next  train." 

"He  is  no  coward,  of  that  you  may  rest 
assured,  Senores.  He  will  fight  him."  Thus 
Don  Calvo,  always  loyal  to  his  friends. 

"Caramba!"  said  a  tall,  thin  Mexican  who 
had  not  hitherto  spoken,  "who  would  not  fight 
for  such  a  woman  ?  He  would  have  to  be  lower 
than  a  dog.  Give  me  the  chance  and  I  would 
fight  the  whole  French  colony  of  Mexico." 

"He  could  crush  him  in  one  hand"  —  "a 
bullet  is  no  respecter  of  size" — "the  larger  the 
man  the  larger  the  bull's  eye" — "he  is  a  good 
swordsman,  Deschanteaux,  quick  as  a  snake  to 
strike,"  etc. 

So  they   rattled   on   till   the   car,    which   had 


Jornada  III  233 

started,  stopped  before  the  entrance  to  the 
gardens  of  the  gambling-hall,  where  a  great 
number  of  people  were  waiting.  As  they 
crowded  into  the  rear  door,  some  finding  seats, 
others  standing,  Forrest  slipped  out  of  the  front 
and  started  on  foot  for  his  lodgings. 

He  was  anxious  to  escape  them,  these  men 
who  judged  without  knowledge.  "He  must 
fight  "  rang  in  his  ears.  But  they  did  not  know 
what  this  man  was  to  him,  he  whom  he  must 
fight.  He  strode  along  with  quick,  nervous 
pace,  leaping  now  and  then  over  the  form  of  a 
drunken  indio  sprawling  on  the  narrow  pave 
ment.  Passing  along  the  edge  of  the  Alameda, 
he  turned  into  a  street  on  the  right,  and  ham 
mered  with  his  fist  upon  the  huge  door  of  an  old 
house.  The  sleepy  portera  opened,  rubbing  her 
eyes,  and  he  passed  into  the  patio  and  then 
up  the  stairs  to  the  gallery  whereon  was  the 
modest  room  he  occupied.  It  was  poorly  fur 
nished.  An  iron  bed;  a  table  loaded  with  books 
and  papers  ;  clothing,  spurs,  saddle,  and  boxing 


234  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

gloves  hung  upon  wooden  pegs  driven  in  the 
walls,  from  which  the  plaster  had  fallen  here  and 
there.  A  shabby  piece  of  carpet  half  covered  the 
red  brick  floor. 

He  took  off  his  coat,  and  then  threw  himself 
upon  his  bed  to  think  it  all  out,  and  of  much 
thinking  there  was  sore  need.  Now  he  had 
at  least  a  few  hours  of  quiet  to  settle  with 
himself ;  with  others  later.  Matters  with  him 
had  now  come  to  a  climax  ;  this  climax  the  bot 
tom  of  a  gulf  down  which  he  had  been  stum 
bling  many  a  year.  Bad  luck  had  stalked  him 
like  a  doppelganger,  and  had  now  brought  him 
to  bay.  To  see  things  clearly  one  must  go  back, 
tracing  cause  and  effect  down  the  steps  of 
time. 

He  saw  himself  at  the  age  of  twelve  at  a  lyce*e 
in  Paris,  orphaned,  dependent  upon  an  uncle,  a 
good-natured  man  who  gave  cheerfully  and  with 
open  hand.  Deschanteaux  had  been  his  friend, 
two  years  younger,  of  much  less  stature  and 
strength.  A  malicious  boy,  he  remembered  him, 


Jornada  III  235 

given  to  hysterical  fits  of  crying  and  screaming 
when  things  did  not  go  to  suit  him,  continually 
appealing  to  le  grand  American  (and  successfully) 
when  other  lads  threatened  merited  thrashings. 
Madame  Deschanteaux,  learning  from  her  son 
that  George  Forrest  was  his  friend  and  protector, 
used  to  take  them  both  out  on  Sundays  to  dine 
at  the  cafe,  and  then  for  a  drive  in  the  Bois,  or  a 
trip  to  Isigny,  where  the  Deschanteaux  owned 
a  farm,  though  Paul's  mother  lived  at  Rouen. 
Friendless  as  Forrest  was  in  that  great  city,  these 
were  his  only  outings,  and  he  was  grateful  to 
the  good  woman  for  her  kindness.  She,  leaving 
them  at  the  gate  Sunday  evening,  each  with  a 
huge  package  of  bonbons  to  be  eaten  thereafter 
by  stealth,  would  say  to  Forrest,  "  You  will  take 
care  of  Paul,  Georges,  and  see  that  he  does  not 
get  hurt  ?  "  and  he  had  always  promised,  saying 
simply,  "Oui,  madame,  bien  star,"  and  he 
was  not  one  of  those  who  forget  things  prom 
ised. 
Later  these  two  had  gone  apart.  Forrest, 


236  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

shaking   off  the   leading  strings   of  school,   had 

taken  a  room  in  the  Latin  CLuarter,  and  entered 

/ 
1'Ecole    Polytechnique.     Paul   had   gone   to   the 

University,  and  pulling  through,  tant  bien  que 
mal,  had  entered  the  bureaucracy,  department 
of  diplomacy,  aiming  at  St.  Petersburg.  They 
had  met  now  and  then  on  Sunday  excursions. 
In  Paul  the  man  had  kept  some  of  the  traits  of 
the  child.  He  was  subject  to  fits  of  colere 
froide,  as  the  French  call  it,  a  cold  rage  that 
may  wear  itself  out  in  time,  but  does  not  re 
act  into  the  warmth  of  good  fellowship.  None 
better  than  Forrest  knew  his  weakness,  and 
often  held  the  hands  of  the  younger  boy  while 
he  made  vain  efforts  to  scratch  and  bite  him. 
In  Mexico  they  had  met  again,  and  it  was  to 
Forrest  like  a  breath  from  the  springtime  of 
youth.  Only  a  month  before  this  he  had  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  Paul's  mother,  rejoicing 
that  her  son  had  met  his  old  comrade,  and  end 
ing  with  the  old-time  request,  "You  will  take 
care  of  Paul,  Georges  ?  "  And  now  he  was  asked 


Jornada  III  237 

to  kill  him  or  be  killed  by  him,  au  choix,  or  else 
flee  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  branded.  No  other 
way  out  of  it,  turn  it  how  he  would.  Leave  he 
could  not,  for  he  had  not  the  money  to  pay 
his  way  out  of  the  country,  had  he  been  so 
inclined. 

He  was  not  over  fond  of  existence,  anyway. 
When  he  left  college  his  good  uncle  had  left  life, 
cheerfully  and  good-naturedly,  as  he  had  lived, 
and,  furthermore,  had  left  a  will  wherein,  with 
much  legal  rhetoric,  he  had  constituted  George 
Forrest  his  sole  heir  and  legatee,  and  creditors 
would  have  smacked  their  lips  at  the  reading 
thereof.  Unfortunately  for  Forrest  the  will  was 
the  only  part  of  the  estate  which  had  been  found, 
the  kindly  man  having  genially  scattered  his 
wealth  to  whistling  winds,  and  his  fortune  had 
ended  with  his  own  need  of  it.  The  young  man 
had  come  home,  a  stranger  in  his  own  land,  and 
pushed  his  way  to  the  swine's  trough,  hunger- 
driven,  and  illy  did  he  succeed  at  it.  Some  men 
drop  into  this  century  by  mistake.  Either  they 


238  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

were  intended  for  another,  and  there  was  some 
blunder  in  time,  or  they  do  carry  with  them  such 
strong  marks  of  past  incarnations  that  they  fit  into 
this  one  no  more  than  square  pegs  into  round 
holes.  Imagine  a  Coeur-de-lion  awakening  in  a 
broker's  office,  holding  his  nose  to  the  stench  of 
ghettos  which  have  burst  bonds  and  swarmed 
the  world  over,  making  good  shield  of  promis 
sory  note  'gainst  lance-thrust,  with  heeling  bail 
iffs,  writ-armed,  nosing  for  chattels.  His  was  a 
misfortune  common  to  those  of  his  countrymen 
who  have  passed  much  of  their  youth  in  older 
lands.  His  own  was  to  him  filled  with  clamor 
and  confusion  and  all  manner  of  din.  Accus 
tomed  to  yield  deference  to  intellect  and  genius, 
he  found  it  exacted  by  politicians  and  pork- 
packers,  and  his  stomach  would  not  feed  on  that 
meat,  hard  though  he  tried  to  gulp  it  down.  He 
had  been  born  with  the  most  fatal  of  all  gifts, 
that  of  seeing  things  as  they  are.  Luck  had  been 
against  him  too,  and  repeated  misfortune  had 
wearied  him  into  a  condition  of  lethargy  in 


Jornada  III  239 

which  he  cared  not  whether  the  world  turned  or 
stood  still. 

At  last  a  chance  had  come  to  him  to  manage  a 
mine  in  Mexico,  but  unfortunately  the  property 
belonged  to  honest  and  inexperienced  men  who 
had  capitalized  it  at  an  honest  valuation  and  at 
tempted  to  raise  the  money  on  an  honest  busi 
ness  basis,  whereupon  the  brokers  had  laughed 
them  to  scorn,  and  the  owners  deservedly  and 
miserably  failed,  leaving  their  manager  penniless 
in  a  strange  land.  It  seemed  to  Forrest  that  fate 
had  done  its  worst  when  there  came  up  this  mat 
ter  of  killing  his  friend  or  getting  killed  by  him. 
He  did  not  so  much  mind  the  leaving  of  a 
world  for  which  he  had  no  love,  but,  if  this 
must  be,  preferred  to  choose  the  manner  of  his 
exit. 

And  Alma  ?  Paul  evidently  loved  her  much  to 
make  him  thus  lose  his  head  and  fling  even 
ordinary  courtesy  to  the  winds,  when  she  but 
walked  and  talked  with  another  man  ;  though 
Forrest  did  not  know  that  when  Alma  Lessing 


240  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

had  reentered  the  room  with  him,  her  expres 
sion  and  manner  were  as  an  open  book  to  the 
keen  eye  of  jealousy,  and  Deschanteaux  had 
clearly  seen  that  the  game  was  up  for  him. 

As  for  Forrest,  ah,  how  he  could  have  loved 
this  woman  had  not  some  strange  wall,  he  knew 
not  how,  built  itself  about  him,  penning  in  every 
impulse,  every  desire — or  was  it  that  impulse  and 
desire  were  drugged  into  a  dull  sleep  by  environ 
ment  ?  Nothing  more  painful  and  brain-racking 
than  self-analysis.  He  felt  dimly  now  that  some 
subtle  action  was  within,  a  tremor  in  a  chrysalis ; 
but  perchance  the  morrow  would  bring  coun 
sel,  so  he  slept. 

Jornada  IV 

THERE  were  few  in  the  great  blue-tiled  Vene 
tian  palace  that  was  the  home  of  the  Jockey  Club 
at  the  early  hour  of  eleven  in  the  morning.  In 
the  cardroom  some  devoted  ones  were  gathered 
together  for  a  game  of  alburres ;  on  one  side  of  the 


Jornada  IV  241 

large  salon  an  Englishman  was  writing  letters, 
while  upon  the  other  the  great  General  Roca, 
he  of  Queretaro  fame,  a  stout  man  with  red  face 
and  bristling  white  moustache,  was  asprawl 
upon  a  sofa,  studying  the  smoke  wreaths  of  his 
cigar.  In  a  huge,  leather-covered  chair  by  one 
of  the  balconied  windows  Paul  Deschanteaux 
sat  reading,  or  pretending  to  read,  a  yellow- 
backed  novel,  with  now  and  then  a  nervous 
yawn. 

He  knew  that  Forrest,  having  no  occupation, 
was  wont  to  pass  much  of  his  time  in  this  club, 
lounging,  smoking,  and  looking  over  the  papers, 
and  the  Frenchman  was  hot  to  meet  him  again, 
fearing  lest  in  some  way  the  American  escape 
him.  His  purpose  was  more  fixed,  if  possible, 
than  it  had  been  the  night  before.  The  occur 
rence  at  the  Villa  Dominguez  had  not  given 
birth  to  hatred  as  hail  from  a  blue  sky.  Rather 
was  it  that  envy,  worm-like,  had  long  since 
eaten  out  the  heart  of  friendship  till  there  re 
mained  but  a  thin  shell,  which  at  slight  pressure 

16 


242  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

would  burst  like  a  puff-ball.  He  had  suffered 
from  childhood  the  humiliation  of  protection,  and 
had  resented  it.  Exile  and  ennui  had  soured 
him.  He  longed  to  break  the  monotone  of 
wearying  days  ;  and  then  the  woman's  words, 
too,  had  bitten  like  corrosive  acid,  and  now  he 
dared  look  no  man  in  the  face  till  he  had  settled 
with  this  favored  one  who  should  do  battle  for 
her.  All  this  had  keyed  him  up  to  bursting. 
He  hoped  to  meet  the  American  here,  and  even 
at  this  moment  the  hand  of  the  man  he  sought 
was  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Paul,"  began  Forrest,  who  had  come  up 
unheard,  "can  we  not  talk  this  matter  over? 
We  have  been  friends  for  too  many  years 

to    quarrel    now,   and "    but    Deschanteaux 

bounded  from  his  chair  and  faced  him,  livid.  "I 
do  not  accept  your  apologies,"  he  shrieked  in  a 
voice  that  was  heard  throughout  the  building. 
"I  told  the  men  last  night  that  you  were  a 
coward,  and  I  repeat  it  now:  un  lache,  un  grand 
likhe,  hiding  behind  the  petticoats  of  your  mis- 


Jornada  IV  243 

tress  !  A  beggar  and  a  coward  ! "  He  raised 
his  right  hand  to  strike  the  American  in  the 
face,  but  Forrest  seized  his  wrist  in  a  grip  like 
that  of  a  steel  vise,  and  twisted  it  till  he  threw 
the  smaller  man,  grimacing  with  pain,  back  into 
his  chair. 

The  card  players  in  the  adjoining  room  had 
rushed  to  the  wide  door  and  were  watching 
curiously,  knowing  something  of  the  reason  of 
this  dispute,  for  gossip  had  borne  high  upon 
its  tide  the  events  of  the  preceding  night  at 
the  Villa  Dominguez.  General  Roca,  however, 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  agility  younger  and 
slimmer  men  might  have  envied,  and  ran  to 
Forrest.  "Let  go  of  his  hand,"  he  said,  sternly; 
"I  will  see  that  he  does  not  try  to  use  it.  We 
must  not  settle  disputes  here  a  bofetadas,  as 
between  two  peons  in  a  back  alley." 

Forrest  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  Deschan- 
teaux  sank  back  into  the  chair. 

"You  are  witness,  General,"  exclaimed  Des- 
chanteaux,  "that  this  man  came  here  to  apolo- 


244  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

gize,  and  that  I  refused  to  accept  his  apologies, 
j " 

"  Brrrrmm  !"  interrupted  the  General,  clearing 
his  throat  with  a  rumbling  roar,  his  small,  black 
eyes  snapping  with  excitement  ;  "  I  know  what 
I  know.  I  take  charge  of  this  matter  now,  and 
both  of  you  must  obey  me.  Do  you  go  home, 
Monsieur  Deschanteaux,  and  find  two  friends. 
Don  Jorge,  stay  a  moment,  I  wish  to  speak  with 
you." 

Deschanteaux  arose,  and  with  a  jeering  laugh  : 
"I  depend  upon  you,  General,  to  see  that  he 
does  not  escape."  He  left  the  club,  followed  by 
two  of  his  friends,  to  whom  he  held  forth,  down 
the  stairway  and  across  the  broad  patio. 

General  Roca  liked  Forrest,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  not  forgotten  the  matter  of  Maximilian 
and  his  hatred  of  the  nation  which  had  backed 
this  unfortunate  prince.  He  spoke  the  language 
only  under  protest,  snorting  at  the  mention  of 
things  French,  and  declining  to  wear  silk  hats 
made  in  Paris. 


Jornada  IV  245 

"Don  Jorge,"  said  the  General,  turning  to 
Forrest,  "do  you  entrust  your  interests  to  my 
hands  ?  Yes  ?  Brrrmm — then  go  to  your  room 
and  remain  there  till  I  come.  Adios." 

He  patted  the  American  gently  toward  the 
hallway,  and  then,  turning  back,  rubbed  his  hands 
briskly  together.  "Unfortunate  affair,  gentle 
men,  very  unfortunate  !  "  he  exclaimed  to  those 
who  stood  discussing  the  matter.  "  I  hope  you 
will  say  nothing  of  this  until  it  is  over.  On  your 
honors,  gentlemen,  for  you  know  the  police  are 
sometimes  disagreeable.  Brrrmm!  " 

He  was  in  his  element,  was  General  Roca. 
Two  things  in  the  world  he  loved  and  lived 
for.  To  tell  the  real  truth  concerning  the  siege 
of  Queretaro  to  any  who  would  listen  (and  of 
late  these  were  few),  and  to  be  mixed  up  in  a 
duel,  either  as  principal  or  second.  He  was  in 
great  demand  in  the  latter  capacity,  as  he  almost 
invariably  got  the  best  of  everything  for  the  one 
for  whom  he  acted,  including  luck  in  the  result. 

At  two  o'clock  the  General  arrived  at  Forrest's 


246  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

room,  accompanied  by  his  nephew,  Pepe 
Ximenez,  a  young  cavalry  officer  with  soft,  dark 
eyes,  and  cheeks  that  were  red  as  ripe  peaches. 

"We  had  a  time,  amigo  mio,"  exclaimed  the 
General,  sinking  into  a  chair,  "  with  his  seconds  ! 
Two  Frenchmen,  caray,  who  pretended  to  give 
me  lessons,  and  they  have  yet  to  grow  beards  ! 
They  were  sucking  milk  when  I  was  leading 
cavalry  !  They  claimed  their  principal  was  the 
offended  party  and  had  the  choice  of  weapons  ! 
Dios  !  I  put  them  straight  in  one— two — three. 
They  held  out  for  pistols,  claiming  that  you  were 
so  large  and  strong.  '  Diablo ! '  said  I,  '  your  friend 
should  have  thought  of  this  before  offending 
mine.'  Brrrmm!  So  swords  it  is,  hombre,  till 
one  falls,  to-morrow  morning  at  five,  at  the  Mili 
tary  School  building,  the  usual  place,  out  there 
by  the  Penon." 

He  chuckled  with  satisfaction,  wiping  his 
face  with  a  huge  red  handkerchief,  and  then 
continued  :  "And  how  are  you  at  the  sword? 
Good,  I  hope." 


Jornada  IV  247 

It  struck  Forrest  that  the  General  should  have 
made  his  ability  as  a  swordsman  the  subject  of 
inquiry  before  consenting  to  these  weapons, 
but  it  had  sufficed  for  Deschanteaux'  seconds 
to  want  one  thing  for  the  General  to  want 
another — and  get  it.  He  replied,  however, 
that  at  one  time  he  had  known  something 
of  fencing,  but  for  years  had  not  had  a  sword 
in  hand. 

The  General  glanced  inquiringly  around  the 
room.  " You  have  no  foils?  Pepito,  hijo  mio, 
go  to  my  house  and  ask  your  aunt  Teresa  for 
my  foils  and  masks.  Tell  her  it  is  not  I  who 
fight,  and  you  will  save  her  several  hours  of 
prayer  in  the  church  of  St.  Joseph."  When 
Pepe  had  departed,  the  General  turned  to  For 
rest,  explanatory:  "We  will  practise  a  while 
and  get  your  hand  in  again.  By  the  way,  this 
matter  between  you  and  this  Frenchman  reminds 
me  of  an  episode  that  occurred  at  the  siege  of 
Queretaro.  Brrrmm !  You  see  the  armies  were 
this  way—"  He  illustrated  on  the  table.  "  This 


248  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

inkstand  is  Queretaro,  this  button  the  convent  of 
La  Cruz.  General  Escobedo  and  his  staff  are  this 
book.  1  and  Velez  were  thrown  forward  here 
with  two  battalions.  Naranjo  and  Guadarrama 
commanding  the  cavalry  are  this  cigar." 

Forrest  followed  the  movements  intelligently, 
expressing  interest,  criticising,  winning  the  old 
man's  heart.  "  You  understand  these  things, 
Don  Jorge  mio,"  the  old  soldier  exclaimed  with 
enthusiasm.  "  You  should  have  been  a  soldier— 
a  leader  of  cavalry — a  Murat  !  Dios  !  What  a 
picture  you  would  make,  charging  at  the  head 
of  a  troop  of  horse!  En  avant  !  Sabres  flash 
ing,  bugle  braying — tra— la— la — la.  Brrrmm!" 

Here  Pepito  entered,  the  foils  concealed  under 
his  military  cloak,  which  he  carried  on  his  arm, 
the  masks  wrapped  in  a  newspaper,  looking  like 
a  huge  melon. 

The  General  stripped  off  his  coat  and  waist 
coat,  took  off  his  collar,  and  turned  back  his 
shirtsleeves,  adjusted  the  mask,  and  commanded 
Forrest  to  do  likewise. 


Jornada  IV  249 

"  Pepito,  push  the  bed  back,  and  that  chair 
out  of  the  way — the  table  in  the  corner — so.  En 
garde  now  !  Bueno.  Let  us  begin  at  the  begin 
ning."  The  blades  clicked.  The  General  con 
tinued,  voluble.  "  Your  left  foot  more  at  right 
angle.  So.  One,  two.  Parade.  Quicker, 
hombre  !  A  woman  could  run  you  through 
with  a  bodkin.  That  is  better.  Now  swords 
quarte  and  watch  this  flanconnade.  Bad,  very 
bad.  Parade  in  octavo,  so  and  so.  Let  us 
try  it  again.  Quicker,  I  tell  you.  Carram- 
ba!" 

The  General  lowered  his  sword.  "Don 
Jorge,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  I  hope  you  will  not 
disgrace  me  by  going  to  sleep  on  the  ground 
to-morrow  morning.  By  the  Mother  of  God, 
put  more  life  into  your  movements,  mas  vida, 
hombre!  You  have  the  strength  of  a  Hercules, 
and  are  slower  than  a  burro.  You  should  be 
able  to  bind  my  blade  and  whip  it  out  of  my 
hand  with  a  demi-turn  of  your  wrist.  Imagine 
I  am  Deschanteaux,  and  am  about  to  carry  off 


250  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

the  beautiful  Senorita  you  two  are  quarrelling 
about.  Try  it  again.  En  garde  !  " 

This  time  it  was  better.  A  slight  flush  had 
passed  over  the  pale  face  of  Forrest  at  the  men 
tion  of  the  woman.  The  General  chuckled, 
knowing  he  had  struck  true.  "Better,  much 
better.  Now  thrust.  Quarto,  tercio,  circulo. 
Better  and  better.  Attack  !  De*gager  !  Feint  ! 
One,  two.  Brrrmm!" 

The  General  took  off  his  mask.  "Now, 
Pepito,  take  a  turn  with  Senor  Forrest." 

The  young  man  seized  the  foil,  and  for  another 
half  hour  he  and  Forrest  fenced,  the  General 
seated  in  the  bentwood  rocking-chair,  a  cane  in 
hand,  playing  at  maitre  d'armes. 

"Good,  Don  Jorge  !  Are  you  a  cripple,  Pepe  ? 
That  time  he  had  you,  chiquito.  That  should 
have  been  quinto,  not  tertio.  You  had  a  good 
teacher,  Don  Jorge,  that  is  evident.  Mark  this: 
if  you  are  in  doubt  as  to  a  parade,  do  nothing. 
Keep  your  point  directed  to  your  adversary's  nose, 
and,  as  your  reach  is  longer,  he  cannot  touch  you 


Jornada  IV  251 

without  first  spitting  himself  like  a  chicken  and 
spoiling  his  beauty.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Brrrmm!  That 
reminds  me— at  the  siege  of  Queretaro— no,  now 
1  think  of  it,  Pepito,  teach  him  the  Indian  feint. 
Attention,  Don  Jorge  !  One,  two.  There,  you 
were  fairly  touched  and  a  dead  man  without  the 
buttons,  and  you  can't  see  how  it  was  done. 
Slowly  now,  Pepito,  so  he  can  get  it." 

The  two  combatants,  out  of  breath,  sat  down 
upon  the  bed.  The  General  glanced  at  his  watch. 
"Five  o'clock.  I  have  an  engagement  to  keep, 
and  will  return  at  seven.  We  will  have  another 
hour's  practice.  You  will  dine  lightly.  A  small 
piece  of  chicken,  a  bit  of  bread,  and  one  glass  of 
champagne,  nothing  more.  To-morrow  morn 
ing  a  roll,  a  cup  of  coffee  at  four,  and  at  four  fif 
teen  the  carriage  will  be  here.  I  leave  nothing 
to  chance.  Were  it  not  for  this  habit  of  mine,  at 
the  siege  of  Queretaro — well,  well,  I  will  tell  you 
that  later.  Adios  !" 

He  bustled  out,  after  a  hand-clasp,  followed  by 
Pepito,  and  Forrest  was  alone. 


252  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

He  lit  a  cigar  and  sat  down  in  the  rocking- 
chair.  No  help  for  it  now.  What  a  demon  Paul 
was,  after  all  !  Surely  he,  Forrest,  had  done  all 
he  could.  They  were  both  now  in  the  hands  of 
fate.  There  is  always  a  relief  in  shifting  things 
on  to  the  broad  shoulders  of  destiny.  In  olden 
times  they  called  it  "the  judgment  of  God,"  and 
presumably  there  were  some  who  believed  that. 
The  chances,  so  far  as  Forrest  knew,  were  even. 
If  he  fell,  the  leaving  of  his  life  would  become 
him  about  as  well  as  the  living  of  it.  Neither 
was  a  matter  of  consequence.  He  remembered 
that  under  these  circumstances  men  wrote  letters 
and  made  wills,  facing  the  worst.  He  had  no 
one  to  whom  he  cared  to  write  and  nothing  to 
leave.  Did  Alma  care  much  for  him  ?  Did  he 
care  for  her  ?  Something  like  a  sharp  pain  shot 
through  him  at  this  thought.  He  wished  he 
could  see  her  once  more  before  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  to  tell  her — no,  better  not,  better  for  her  and 
for  him.  But  the  wall  about  him  was  crumbling, 
the  mist  was  fading  away,  and  he  saw  clearly. 


Jornada  IV  253 

It  was  only  last  night  they  sat  in  the  moonbeams, 
by  the  white  statue  of  Diana  and  the  impossible 
dog,  and  it  seemed  years  ago.  What  a  droll  life 
this  is,  after  all ! 

Alma  Lessing,  parched  for  news,  had  sent 
posthaste  for  Don  Calvo.  Her  action  of  the  pre- 
ceeding  night  was  wormwood  in  her  mouth,  and 
to  undo  it  she  would  have  given  much.  Well 
had  she  said  it,  "a  plain  woman  of  the  people." 
Arms  akimbo  !  The  polish  of  later  years  cracked 
now  and  then  to  let  out  nature;  the  lioness 
growled  from  under  the  sheepskin.  But  this 
would  have  been  to  her  no  more  than  the  breezes 
that  blow,  did  she  not  know  that  the  man  she 
loved  would  pay  the  piper  for  her  dancing.  Snakes 
are  dangerous  to  monarchs,  and  to  her  Deschan- 
teaux  was  a  coiled  adder,  ambushed.  Custom 
would  demand  ten  paces  and  two  bullets,  sense 
less  leaden  things  with  no  more  respect  for  the 
heart  of  Hercules  than  the  ribs  of  a  guinea-pig, 
or  a  clashing  of  steel  blades  with  open  spaces  for 


254  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

even  weak  hands.  Without  her  outburst  matters 
might  have  been  smoothed  over,  the  break  in 
years  of  friendship  mended,  to  last  at  least  for  a 
while. 

It  was  not  in  her  nature  to  lose  time  in  regrets. 
The  night  through  she 'had  writhed,  impotent, 
under  conjured  possibilities,  but  the  sun  smote 
her  into  action.  She  penned  a  hasty  note  to 
Don  Calvo,  having  full  faith  in  his  devotion. 
Would  he  not  watch,  inquire,  spy  out,  letting 
her  know  results,  and  this  quickly,  to  the 
foundering  of  horses  ? 

She  paced  the  room  till  after  the  noon  hour, 
when  he  arrived,  breathless  and  bursting.  He 
chaptered  the  events  of  the  morning  at  the 
Jockey  Club,  while  she  beat  a  nervous  tattoo 
upon  the  arm  of  her  chair.  He  was  verbose 
to  weariness,  and  her  impatience  whipped  him 
on.  The  town  was  now  chewing  details  of 
the  matter,  for  each  witness  had  whispered 
them  to  a  friend  in  solemn  confidence.  The 
two  would  fight— that  was  settled,  then — but 


Jornada  IV  255 

when  and  how  ?  Don  Calvo  swore  he  would 
tell  her  before  nightfall,  and  sped  away,  shak 
ing  with  sympathetic  excitement. 

The  task  was  not  an  easy  one,  for  principals 
and  seconds  were  mute.  Don  Calvo  button 
holed  General  Roca  in  the  San  Francisco,  in 
sinuated  questions,  and  was  laughed  away. 
Later  Don  Calvo  laughed,  for  he  straightway 
sought  out  a  big  brown  fellow  in  a  peaked 
straw  hat  and  ragged  cotton  shirt,  and,  after 
earnest  whispering,  slipped  silver  into  his  hand, 
betaking  himself  thence  to  a  cafe  to  kill  time 
with  a  game  of  dominoes  and  await  the  return 
of  his  ferret.  He  waited  long,  for  the  carriages 
were  already  rumbling  back  from  afternoon 
drives  on  the  Paseo  when  the  man  returned, 
his  sloe-black  eyes  glistening  success. 

He  had  lured  the  coachman  of  General  Roca 
to  a  neighboring  pulqueria,  and  there,  after  pour 
ing  down  him  many  glasses  of  the  milky-  fluid, 
had  learned  that  the  horses  were  not  to  be  taken 
out  that  afternoon  for  the  usual  family  ride  to 


•256  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

Chapultepec,  but  were  to  be  hitched  up  at  four 
the  next  morning  ;  and  Manuela,  the  housemaid, 
had  seen  the  General  furbishing  his  swords,  the 
pair  he  kept  in  the  long  table  drawer  in  his 
library.  This  was  enough  for  Don  Calvo,  and 
he  was  off  to  report. 

He  found  Alma  quiet  without,  but  quivering 
within.  There  is  relief  in  knowing  the  worst. 
To-morrow  morning  at  five  or  so — swords — of 
course  within  the  walls  of  the  roofless  and 
unfinished  building  of  the  Military  School.  Every 
one  goes  there  to  settle  these  matters.  (Ah !  yes; 
she  remembered  how  Forrest  had  pointed  it  out 
to  her  that  day  in  the  tower,  a  reddish  blot  on 
the  plain.) 

She  plied  him  with  questions.  Was  the 
Frenchman  skilled  at  sword  play  ?  Was  Forrest  ? 
As  a  rule  how  many  were  killed  and  how  many 
wounded  in  these  encounters  ?  She  calculated 
chances,  but  the  best  gave  her  a  twinge  of  pain. 
She  dreaded  his  lethargy ;  she  feared  good  nature, 
remembrances  of  past  friendship,  would  numb 


Jornada  IV  257 

his  arm  and  bridle  his  impetus,  while  she  knew 
the  other  would  seek  to  kill.  Her  lover  was 
to  her  as  some  big  child  whom  she  would  have 
folded  in  her  arms,  shielding  him  with  her  body, 
could  she  have  done  so.  Her  lover  ?  He  had 
never  spoken  to  her  of  love.  She  had  seen 
him  twice— three  times  at  most.  To  her  he 
was  the  prince  coming  after  weary  years  of 
waiting  ;  but  what  was  she  to  him  ?  Yet  she 
felt  no  doubts  upon  this  score  ;  in  this  she  was 
sure  of  the  future.  Only  now  he  risked  his  life  ; 
the  prince's  horse  might  stumble  upon  the  very 
threshold  and  throw  its  rider ;  and  this  must 
be  looked  to. 

Yet  she  could  do  nothing.  There  was  no 
act  by  which  she  could  prevent  this  encounter 
upon  the  morrow.  Too  much  had  been  done 
already.  She  could  not  disgrace  him  fur 
ther.  She  had  dragged  out  of  Don  Calvo  the 
words  of  Deschanteaux  :  "Coward,  hiding  be 
hind  the  petticoats  of  your  mistress  ! "  The 

word  "coward"  to  him  stung  her  to  madness  ; 
17 


258  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

the  reflection  upon  her  was  nothing.  No,  he 
must  fight  ;  fight  and  win  and  kill.  She  was 
merciless  as  Judith,  and  could  have  slain  with 
her  own  hand  ;  but  she  was  powerless. 

Nay,  she  could  do  something.  She  believed 
in  the  triumph  of  will  over  destiny;  that  thought 
creates  and  fashions  events  to  one's  liking  if 
one  be  strong  enough.  Her  uncle  had  taken 
her  much  among  men  whose  names  were 
towers  in  the  higher  world  of  knowledge,  and 
she  had  heard  them  whisper  of  science  reach 
ing  out  an  arm  into  the  domain  of  miracle  and 
wresting  fixed  laws  from  the  chaos  of  super 
stition.  The  power  of  one  mind  upon  another 
had  been  dimly  seen,  and  men  were  wondering 
if  some  musty  records  of  past  ages  could  be  true. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  radiate  a  strength 
that  could  stop  a  star.  Love  would  ride  the 
warhorse  of  her  will  to  battle.  She  had  a  faith 
to  move  mountains.  From  her  room,  on  the 
morrow,  she  would  move  these  two  fighting 
men  as  puppets.  She  felt  like  a  witch  mixing  a 


Jornada  V  259 

mystic  brew,  to  save  to  her  the  man  she  loved  ; 
and  while  this  man  slept,  heavily,  dreamlessly, 
the  woman  watched  in  her  darkened  room, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  vacancy,  her  mind  intent 
on  what  was  to  be,  till  her  body  became  rigid 
and  motionless,  and  her  thought,  taking  form, 
sped  like  an  electric  shaft  to  mould  events  to 
her  liking. 

Jornada  V 

The  carriage  rattled  over  the  stony  streets  at 
the  first  glimmer  of  the  dawn  that  was  paling  the 
lanterns,  of  watchmen  at  street  crossings.  On 
the  rear  seat  were  Forrest  and  the  General,  oppo 
site  to  them  Pepe  Ximenez  and  Doctor  Lisorta, 
the  latter  fighting  yawns.  Forrest  was  thinking 
nothing  of  whither  he  was  going.  He  had 
awakened  with  the  vague  feeling  of  an  incubus 
pressing  upon  him,  of  some  ugly  task  to  be  faced 
and  done,  and  when  the  facts  shot  back  into  his 
consciousness  he  had  put  them  away,  convinced 


260  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

that  thought  of  them  was  useless — an  hour  or 
two  would  tell.  He  sat  looking  out  of  the  car 
riage  window  at  the  long  gray  line  of  houses, 
dotted  here  and  there  by  the  gaudy  signs  of 
dramshops,  scarce  heeding  the  animated  dis 
pute  which  had  arisen  between  the  General  and 
the  Doctor. 

At  the  turning  of  a  street  corner  Forrest  gave  a 
slight  start,  for  he  saw,  under  the  sharp  light  of  an 
electric  lamp,  a  form  clothed  in  a  white,  trailing 
garment,  and  the  face,  though  indistinct,  he 
knew  to  be  that  of  Alma  Lessing.  She  seemed 
to  glide  to  the  carnage  door,  and  then  sweep 
along  beside  the  vehicle,  without  an  effort,  so 
close  that  he  could  have  put  out  his  hand  and 
touched  the  long  brown  hair  that  fell  like  a  cloak 
to  her  feet.  He  recognized  at  once  that  this  was 
but  an  hallucination,  a  thought  picture  thrown 
out  objectively,  yet  it  caused  a  curious  tremor  to 
run  through  him.  So  strong  was  this  impres 
sion,  so  persistent,  that  he  turned  to  the  other 
occupants  of  the  carriage,  almost  in  wonder  that 


Jornada  V  261 

they  too  should  not  see.  When  he  again  looked 
toward  the  window,  the  phantom  of  his  brain 
had  vanished. 

The  carnage  had  passed  the  limits  of  the  city, 
and,  stony  roads  left  behind,  was  now  bowling 
over  smooth  earth,  the  horses  snorting  in  the 
keen  air,  the  coachman  restraining  them  with  oft 
repeated  "Xo,  xo,  chicos." 

The  General  and  the  Doctor  continued  their 
argument.  "  I  tell  you,  General,"  said  the  latter, 
shaking  his  finger,  "the  French  lead  the  world 
in  scientific  investigation,  and  to-day  we  are 
entering  upon  the  era  of  science." 

The  General  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
waved  his  hand  contemptuously.  The  Doctor 
continued,  emphasizing  by  slapping  his  knee, 
"Man,  from  that  period  of  evolution  in  which  he 
assumed  his  present  form,  has  passed  through 
three  stages,  and  is  about  entering  the 
fourth."  He  counted  on  his  fingers.  "First, 
the  period  of  brute  force,  the  age  of  the  warrior. 
Secondly,  the  period  of  cunning,  the  age  of  the 


262  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

priest,  who,  by  shrewdness,  overcame  brute  force 
in  a  measure,  and  gathered  to  himself  the  func 
tions  of  legislation,  leechcraft,  and  monopolized 
all  knowledge.  Thirdly,  the  period  of  lav/,  based 
upon  experience  and  observation  of  human  rela 
tions,  the  age  of  the  lawyer,  who  holds  us  in  his 
grip  to-day.  We  are  at  the  dawn  of  the  fourth 
period,  during  which  the  scientist  will  rule,  and 
the  practical  scientist  is  the  physician,  He  only 
can  save  life;  the  others  destroy  it." 

"The  period  of  pills,  in  short,"  interrupted  the 
General,  grinning  maliciously. 

The  Doctor  threw  himself  back  upon  the 
cushions,  folding  his  arms,  and  raising  both 
shoulders  nearly  to  his  ears,  a  method  of  ex 
pressing  indignation  which  was  too  deep  for 
words.  Pepe  Ximenez  laughed. 

' '  War, "  said  the  General,  in  more  serious  tone, 
and  shaking  his  finger  triumphantly  in  turn  at 
the  Doctor,  "is  acknowledged  by  all  historians 
to  have  been  the  great  civilizer.  Hence  the 
soldier  is  the  prime  factor  in  civilization." 


Jornada  V  263 

The  Doctor  sniffed.  "The  soldier's  greatest 
virtue  is  courage.  It  is  also  possessed  in  an 
equal  degree  by  numerous  animals,  such  as  the 
rhinoceros,  the  crocodile,  the  shark " 

"Disparates  !     All  the  great  qualities " 

Here  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  black  peaked 
hat  of  the  coachman,  with  its  silver  band,  shad 
owed  the  window.  "Is  it  here,  Senor  General, 
you  wished  to  stop?" 

The  General  thrust  his  head  out  and  surveyed 
the  surrounding  country.  "  Yes,  yes." 

He  opened  the  door  and  they  alighted.  When 
all  were  out,  the  General  sent  the  carriage  on  to 
take  a  stand  some  half-mile  up  the  road,  that 
attention  might  not  be  attracted,  for  one  can  see 
far  on  this  treeless  plain. 

The  four  walked  in  single  file  along  a  narrow 
path  worn  through  the  grass,  and  which  led 
toward  the  huge  brick  walls  pierced  with  holes 
which  some  day,  government  funds  permitting, 
were  to  be  closed  into  doors  and  glazed  into 
windows.  As  they  were  about  to  enter  under 


264  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

an  arch,  Forrest  again  saw  the  white  form,  more 
dimly  than  before,  floating  like  a  bit  of  mist  over 
the  grass,  and  it  seemed  to  melt  away  against  the 
brick  wall. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  enclosure  stood  three 
gentlemen  in  black  frock  coats  and  silk  hats,  con 
versing  together.  The  General  glanced  at  his 
watch  and  said,  with  an  air  of  relief,  "  We  are  not 
late.  In  fact  it  lacks  five  minutes  of  the  hour." 

The  sun  had  now  fully  risen  and  was  sending 
broad  bands  of  light  through  the  window-spaces, 
checkering  the  hard  earthen  floor  into  squares  of 
yellow,  framed  in  dark  brown. 

The  Doctor  went  over  to  a  low  pile  of  brick, 
and  after  carefully  depositing  his  black  bag  at  his 
feet,  sat  down  and  began  rolling  a  cigarette,  like 
a  veteran  actor  who,  having  no  part  in  the  first 
act,  awaits  his  cue  in  the  second,  indifferent. 
Two  of  the  black  frock  coats  advanced  to  meet 
the  General  and  his  nephew,  saluting  gravely, 
the  manner  and  expression  of  polished  gentle 
men,  with  a  smacking  of  undertakers  simulating 


Jornada  V  265 

sympathy.  The  seconds  of  Deschanteaux  were 
both  of  his  own  country.  Monsieur  Imbert,  an 
amiable  youth  with  blond  moustache,  much  out 
of  place  in  a  matter  of  this  kind,  would  have 
given  worlds  to  be  back  in  his  glove  store  in  the 
Coliseo,  in  company  with  the  charming  woman 
who  kept  his  accounts.  That  morning  she  had  said 
to  him  when  he  left  her,  "Courage,  mon  pauvre 
cheri,"  and  he  had  shrugged  his  shoulders  in 
contempt  of  feminine  alarms.  He  kept  repeating 
to  himself,  however,  that  he  was  only  a  second, 
a  mere  spectator,  and  hence  in  no  possible  dan 
ger.  He  relied  upon  his  companion  for  all  things 
pertaining  to  this  business,  and  well  he  might, 
for  Gustave  Delorme  was  a  man  of  wide  experi 
ence  in  killing  with  or  without  deliberation, 
strictly  according  to  social  law  and  usage.  He 
had  served  in  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  knew  a 
sword  from  a  curling  iron,  and  felt  the  honor  and 
responsibility  of  his  position,  which  reflected  in  the 
measured  gravity  of  his  speech  and  the  curving 
gesture  with  which  he  twirled  his  pointed  black 


266  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

moustache.  He  had  great  admiration  for  General 
Roca,  whom  he  had  described  to  the  peaceful 
Imbert,  "  Voila,  mon  cher,  un  vieux  de  la  vieille, 
un  vrai  !  " 

Monsieur  Delorme  proffered  a  pair  of  swords, 
his  own.  The  General  examined  the  handles  and 
guards  critically,  tried  the  spring  of  the  blades 
over  his  knee,  measured  them  carefully  side  by 
side,  and  then  accepted  them — they  were  full 
four  ounces  heavier  than  those  he  had  brought 
with  him,  and  he  preferred  the  weightier  blade 
for  the  stronger  arm.  The  details  were  again 
agreed  upon,  and  the  General  walked  over  to 
where  Forrest  stood,  gazing  at  nothing,  his 
thoughts  filled  with  the  woman  whose  phan 
tom  he  had  seen,  a  great  yearning  within 
him. 

"  All  right,  my  boy,"  said  the  General,  cheer 
fully,  ''the  conditions  are  that  you  fight  till  one 
falls,  as  I  told  you  yesterday.  A  wound  that 
does  not  disable  will  not  warrant  interference  by 
the  seconds.  Don't  forget  what  I  told  you  about 


Jornada  V  267 

the  length  of  your  reach.  Above  all  things, 
wake  up  !  Be  quick  !  " 

Forrest  bowed  in  acquiescence,  and  took  off 
his  coat  and  waistcoat,  laying  them  upon  the 
brick  pile  upon  which  the  Doctor  was  seated. 
He  rolled  up  his  right  shirtsleeve  to  the  shoulder, 
displaying  a  massive  and  muscular  arm,  white  as 
a  woman's,  at  which  the  Doctor  glanced  in  ad 
miration. 

Forrest  took  the  sword  which  was  handed  to 
him,  saluted,  and  stood  facing  Deschanteaux. 
The  blades  clicked  together,  and  the  two  men 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  The  corners  of 
the  Frenchman's  mouth  drawn  back,  and  his 
eyes  half  closed,  as  if  to  concentrate  his  power  of 
vision,  gave  to  his  face  an  expression  wherein 
one  could  read  fixed  determination,  intense  vin- 
dictiveness,  and  certainty  of  success.  His  gesture 
in  bringing  his  sword  to  that  of  his  opponent 
spoke  the  satisfaction  of  one  who  has  waited 
long  and  says  "At  last." 

For  a    moment  Forrest  saw  only  the  friend 


268  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

of  boyhood  days.  Remove  the  moustache, 
smooth  out  the  lines  about  the  eyes,  and  he  was 
again,  "le  petit  Paul,  sacre  garnement,  vas  ! " 
of  twenty  years  before.  Forrest  felt  an  almost 
overpowering  desire  to  throw  down  his  sword, 
seize  the  hands  of  his  adversary  and  hold  them, 
while  the  latter  tried  to  bite  and  scratch,  scream 
ing  the  while.  He  had  always  been  so  careful 
not  to  hurt  him,  hearing  the  words  of  Madame 
Deschanteaux,  and  remembering  his  answer  : 
"  Bien  sur,  Madame; "  and  his  mouth  recalled  the 
sweet  flavors  of  bonbons,  eaten  by  stealth,  lest 
the  pion  see  them.  Only  for  a  moment  did  these 
thought-pictures  flash  through  his  mind ;  but  his 
eyes  showed  absence,  and  the  point  of  Paul's 
sword  quivered  within  an  inch  of  his  side. 

The  General  uttered  a  terrible  "Brrrmm!"at 
which  Monsieur  Delorme  looked  indignant,  but 
he  could  say  nothing;  for  when  a  man  is  troubled 
with  catarrh,  he  must  clear  his  throat  once  in  a 
while. 

Forrest  understood.     He  gripped  the  handle  of 


Jornada  V 


269 


his  sword  more  firmly,  recalling  that  latterly  life 
had  become  worth  living,  worth  fighting  for. 
The  gloomy  future  had  been  pierced  by  a  ray  of 
light.  All  remembrance  of  past  friendship  fell  from 
him  now  like  a  cloak  thrown  off,  never  to  be 
worn  again.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  those 
of  his  adversary,  seeking  to  guess  his  thrusts,  act 
ing  upon  the  defensive.  There  was  a  scratching 
of  steel  upon  steel,  with  now  and  then  a  low, 
sharp  click. 

It  was  rapidly  becoming  apparent  to  the  on 
lookers  that  Deschanteaux  was  master  of  the  art; 
as  superior  to  Forrest  as  cat  to  mouse.  Deschan 
teaux'  expression  was  now  a  triumphant  grin;  he 
knew  he  had  the  other  at  his  mercy.  It  was 
easy,  almost  too  easy ;  so  a  glance  said  which  he 
shot  at  his  seconds.  He  was  now  playing  to  the 
gallery;  he  would  keep  this  up  as  long  as  it 
amused  him,  and  then  with  one  swift  thrust — in 
the  right  spot. 

The  General  nervously  grasped  the  arm  of  his 
nephew,  who  stood  beside  him.  He  felt  that  he 


270  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

had  blundered,  blundered  horribly  in  the  choice 
of  weapons.  With  pistols  his  principal  would 
have  had  at  least  a  chance;  here  he  had  none. 
The  General  saw  that  Forrest  was  not  "asleep," 
as  he  had  feared  ;  he  saw  that  his  man  was  doing 
all  that  he  could,  better  than  he  had  done  the  pre 
vious  day  in  practice  ;  but  even  this  was  nothing. 
Forrest  felt  his  own  lack  of  skill,  knew  now 
that  Deschanteaux  would  do  with  him  what  he 
would.  There  was  no  fear  in  him,  only  regret, 
deep,  poignant,  and  it  condensed  itself  into  one 
word,  "Alma!"  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had 
uttered  this  name  aloud.  The  illusion  came  to 
him  again;  the  white-draped  form  was  beside 
him,  so  close  he  could  have  touched  the  long, 
brown  hair;  so  clearly  defined  that  it  was  pass 
ing  strange  the  others  could  not  see  it.  A  puff 
of  cold  air  seemed  to  blow  upon  him ;  a  tremor 
waved  up  from  his  feet  to  his  head,  and 
through  his  arms.  Then  a  flame  leapt  within 
him,  and  a  rosy  cloud,  as  of  mist  tinged  with 
blood,  passed  before  his  eyes,  through  which  he 


Jornada  V  271 

saw  only  the  grinning  face  and  the  neck  of  Des- 
chanteaux,  swaying  like  a  pendulum  from  side  to 
side.  He  felt  the  strength  of  an  army  in  his  arm. 
The  Berserker  rage  was  upon  him ;  he  could  have 
shouted,  as  his  Viking  ancestors  had  shouted  at 
sea,  perched  upon  the  prows  of  their  Jong  boats, 
driving  into  the  face  of  the  storm  with  clashing 
bucklers.  He  was  not  conscious  of  his  own 
sword  ;  his  hand  moved  itself  as  move  upon  the 
keyboard  the  fingers  of  a  skilled  player  who  is 
thinking  of  other  things. 

General  Roca  marked  with  amazement  the 
sudden  change.  He  saw  the  lips  of  Forrest  part, 
showing  the  white  teeth  clinched  together ;  the 
angry  flash  in  the  eyes,  and  two  deep,  perpen 
dicular  lines  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead.  Now 
Forrest  attacked.  His  sword  play  had  ceased  to 
be  fencing,  it  was  legerdemain.  His  blade  had 
become  invisible,  moving  so  swiftly  the  eye 
could  not  follow  it,  a  moulinet  forming  a  shield 
of  steel.  He  moved  upon  his  adversary  slowly, 
deliberately. 


272  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

Deschanteaux  broke  ground.  A  step  back, 
then  another.  When  he  put  out  his  sword  it 
was  whirled  aside  like  the  switch  a  child  thrusts 
into  the  spokes  of  an  engine  wheel  in  motion. 
His  expression  changed  ;  at  first  doubtful,  trou 
bled,  finally  one  of  absolute  terror.  His  eyes 
were  fixed,  as  if  fascinated,  upon  the  disk  of  steel 
before  him  or  upon  something  beyond.  His  arm 
was  numbed,  his  hand  had  lost  its  dexterity. 
Back,  step  by  step,  with  now  and  then  a  weak 
thrust  in  vain  attempt  to  break  through. 

The  spirits  of  General  Roca  rose.  He  cast 
upon  Monsieur  Delorme  a  look  that  meant  much. 
The  Doctor  left  his  seat  and  came  nearer.  This 
could  not  last  long. 

Suddenly  Forrest's  arm  straightened,  he  bent 
forward  very  slightly,  then  the  hand  and  sword 
were  still,  only  the  end  of  the  blade  quivering  a 
little,  and  it  had  changed  color  to  red.  At  the 
base  of  Deschanteaux'  neck,  just  above  the  breast 
bone,  a  stream  of  dark  blood  gushed  out, 
and  at  the  same  instant  his  knees  doubled 


Jornada  V  273 

up  under  him,  and  he  fell  heavily  upon  his 
back. 

Monsieur  Delorme  sprang  toward  the  fallen 
man,  but  the  Doctor  was  there  before  him. 
Sinking  upon  one  knee,  he  turned  the  body  half 
over,  and  at  the  back  of  the  neck  saw  a  small 
wound  from  which  issued  a  few  drops  of  blood. 

"He  is  dead,  gentlemen,"  he  said  quietly, 
looking  up  at  the  anxious  faces  ;  "the  sword 
passed  completely  through  the  neck,  severing 
the  cervical  vertebrae.  Death — or  at  least  the  ces 
sation  of  all  consciousness— was  instantaneous. 
He  suffered  no  pain." 

Monsieur  Imbert  grew  very  white,  and  went 
over  to  the  pile  of  bricks  and  sat  down,  hiding 
his  face  in  his  hands.  General  Roca  turned  to 
Monsieur  Delorme  : 

"This  is  unfortunate,  sir,  very  unfortunate; 
but  you  recognize,  of  course,  that  all  conditions 
have  been  strictly  complied  with,  and  that  this 
is  a  catastrophe  which  we  deplore  as  much  as 
you  do." 

18 


274  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

Monsieur  Delorme  nodded  affirmatively.  ' '  Yes, 
yes,  General,"  he  replied  sadly,  "it  is  the  fortune 
of  war.  I  will  sign  the  proces-verbal  together 
with  my  companion,  if  you  will  draw  it  up." 

George  Forrest  glanced  at  the  body  of  the  man 
whom  he  had  believed  to  be  his  friend  for  so 
many  years,  and  then,  throwing  down  his  sword, 
turned  away  and  walked  over  to  where  he  had 
left  his  coat. 

He  felt  neither  sorrow  nor  triumph.  Some 
thing  of  the  anger  which  had  so  strangely  and 
suddenly  arisen  within  him  was  still  upon  him. 
He  had  thought  it  all  out  before  to  weariness, 
and  knew  that  he  had  done  what  he  could  to 
avoid  the  meeting  ;  his  reason  justified  him  and 
dominated  his  emotions.  Then,  too,  a  change 
had  taken  place.  The  mental  inertia,  amount 
ing  almost  to  a  form  of  melancholia,  had  fallen 
away  from  him.  The  blood  coursed  rapidly 
through  his  veins  and  tingled  in  his  finger-tips  ; 
every  faculty  and  desire  alive,  vibrating  in  unison 
with  the  nature  that  was  about  him.  The  sun- 


Jornada  V  275 

light  was  bright,  the  sky  blue,  as  to  him  they 
had  not  been  for  many  a  year.  One  chapter  of 
his  life  had  closed,  tragically,  it  is  true,  but 
another  had  opened  in  which  he  could  foresee 
rainbow  tints  flashing  about  a  woman's  face, 
and  her  voice  was  the  music  to  which  the  hours 
stepped  lightly. 

"  You  know,  Jorge,"  said  the  General,  coming 
up  to  him,  "you  will  have  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  for  a  few  weeks.  The  police  will  make  no 
great  effort  to  arrest  you,  but  if  they  should  see 
you,  they  could  hardly  avoid  doing  so,  for  form's 
sake  ;  and  once  in  Belem  prison,  it  is  not  easy  to 
get  out,  except  feet  foremost,  the  typhus  aiding. 
We  will  make  our  report,  Monsieur  Delorme  and 
I,  later  on.  Now  I  will  drive  back  quickly  to 
your  house  with  you,  and,  while  you  are  packing 
a  few  things,  will  have  the  horses  changed,  and 
send  you  the  carriage  with  a  fresh  pair  which 
will  take  you  out  to  the  third  station  on  the  rail 
road,  where  you  can  get  the  train." 

The  General  signalled  to  his  coachman,    and 


276  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

he  and  Forrest  entered  the  carriage,  leaving  the 
Doctor  and  Pepe  Ximenez  to  assist  Monsieur 
Delorme  in  the  sad  task  of  bringing  back  to 
the  city  the  body  of  Paul  Deschanteaux. 

They  had  proceeded  only  a  short  distance 
when  the  General's  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
horse's  hoofs,  a  mad  gallop  upon  the  highway. 
In  another  moment  the  panting  animal  was 
reined  up  by  the  side  of  the  carnage  and  the 
face  of  Don  Calvo  appeared  at  the  window.  He 
espied  Forrest. 

"You  are  not  hurt,  Don  Jorge  mio  ?  No? 
May  the  saints  be  praised !  And  the  other  ?  " 

The  General  answered  with  a  look,  a  shrug, 
and  an  outward  motion  of  the  hands  that  told 
the  story  without  words.  Don  Calvo's  good- 
natured  face  grew  serious;  he  commented  with 
a  word,  "Ca-ray!"  uttered  slowly  and  softly, 
straightened  up  in  his  saddle,  and  removed  his 
hat,  riding  along  a  few  moments  in  silence.  He 
leaned  over  again. 

"Don  Jorge,  I  am  glad  you  are  safe,  and  an- 


Jornada  V  277 

other  will  be  more  glad  than  I  can  tell  you.  I 
have  two  letters  for  you  which  I  was  only  to  de 
liver  in  case  you  were  unhurt."  He  handed  the 
white  envelopes  to  Forrest.  "I  am  going  back 
to  carry  the  news  to — "  He  hesitated,  and 
then,  perceiving  that  Forrest  understood,  contin 
ued,  "  I  promised  her,  you  know.  Adios."  He 
waved  his  hand  in  leave-taking,  and,  putting 
spurs  to  his  horse,  shot  along  the  highway,  and 
was  soon  out  of  sight,  swallowed  up  by  a  cloud 
of  white  dust. 

"Read  your  letters,  my  boy,  read  your  let 
ters,"  said  the  General,  patting  his  companion 
on  the  knee;  "I'll  warrant  they  contain  good 
news." 

Forrest  opened  the  smaller  envelope.  The  en 
closure  contained  but  a  few  lines,  which  he  read 
at  a  glance.  "If  you  read  this,  fortune  has 
favored  you  and  you  will  know  that  I  am  glad 
beyond  words.  Come  to  me  as  quickly  as  you 
can.  Alma  Lessing." 

He  folded  the  note  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 


278  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

He  did  not  need  this  to  confirm  the  certainty 
which  was  within  him,  yet  it  caused  his  heart  to 
beat  faster  for  a  moment,  added  another  glow 
and  a  brighter  hue  to  rainbow  tints  that  played 
about  the  face  filling  the  future. 

The  other  letter  enfolded  some  bank  bills,  and 
was  from  his  friend  Velasco,  the  notary.  "I 
give  this  to  our  mutual  friend  Don  Calvo,  who 
tells  me  he  will  see  you  early  to-morrow.  My 
sympathies  are  all  with  you,  my  dear  friend,  and 
likewise  the  good  wishes  of  my  comrades.  Now 
if  you  are  unscathed  I  have  good  news  for  you. 
Don  Cassio  Alvarez — you  know,  the  one  in 
Guerrero — has  authorized  me  to  close  with  you 
for  the  management  of  his  hacienda.  I  take  your 
acceptance  for  granted,  and  send  herewith  some 
money  for  travelling  expenses,  for  which  please 
send  receipt — on  stamped  paper — at  your  con 
venience.  He  is  a  good  man,  Don  Cassio,  and  a 
pleasant  companion,  well  educated,  and  I  know 
you  will  like  him.  Enclosed  find  full  directions 
for  journey.  Afsmo  amigo  y  S.  S.  Q.  S.  M.  B." 


Jornada  V  279 

Forrest  handed  the  letter  to  the  General,  who 
read  it  carefully  through.  "  Good!  "  he  exclaimed, 
seizing  Forrest's  hand  and  shaking  it  heartily. 
"It  is  great  good  fortune  that  this  comes  now. 
And  I  know  Don  Cassio  well.  He  is  one  of  the 
old  ones — was  with  me  at  Queretaro.  I  must 
send  him  a  letter  by  you.  He  will  confirm  all  I 
told  you  about  the  siege;  he  is  a  bright  man,  a 
bright  man,  a  very  bright  man." 

Surely  the  jade  fortune  had  turned  her  face 
toward  him,  smiling,  so  Forrest  thought,  and  her 
eyes  were  two  wells  of  deep  blue,  fathomless. 
He  wondered  if — now  that — 

The  carriage  drew  up  before  the  house  in 
which  Forrest  lived.  "  I  will  not  see  you  again 
for  a  long  time,  perhaps,  Don  Jorge."  The  Gen 
eral  seized  Forrest's  hand  and  passed  his  own 
left  arm  about  his  companion's  neck,  patting 
him  on  the  back,  Mexican  fashion.  "You  have 
nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with,  my  friend. 
You  have  acted  in  all  things  like  a  brave  man 
and  a  caballero.  You  were  over-matched,  and 


280  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

how  you  did  it  in  the  end  is  a  puzzle  to  me. 
However,  thank  God  you  are  sound  and  well ! 
Go  with  God,  hijo  mio,  vaya  Vd.  con  Dios!" 

The  General  waved  aside  the  thanks  which 
Forrest  would  have  uttered.  "Nada,  nada  !  I 
came  too  near  putting  my  foot  in  it  in  choosing 
swords.  Only  that  last  attack  of  yours — car- 
ramba,  what  an  assault  ! — saved  me  from  dis 
grace."  He  leaned  out  of  the  window,  beaming, 
as  the  carriage  turned,  and  called  out  again  to 
Forrest  :  "Jose*  will  be  back  in  half  an  hour, 
remember,  with  fresh  horses." 

Forrest  rapidly  thrust  some  clothing  into  a 
large  valise,  together  with  his  revolvers  and 
things  that  were  trifles  in  a  city,  but  beyond 
price  in  the  wild  country  whither  he  was  bound. 
The  rest  of  his  luggage  Velasco  would  send  on 
to  him.  He  wrote  a  note  to  the  worthy  notary, 
thanking  him  warmly,  explaining  why  he  could 
not  call,  and  gave  this  to  the  portera,  with  some 
silver,  for  delivery  later. 

He  sprang  into  the  waiting  carriage  after  fling- 


Jornada  V  281 

ing  the  words  at  the  driver:  "First,  Jose,  the 
Villa  Dominguez — Tacubaya — first  road  to  the 
right  after  you  pass  the  gambling  hall." 

"Si,  Senor." 

As  the  vehicle  rumbled  off,  Forrest  drew  up  the 
blinds,  as  a  measure  of  precaution,  while  passing 
through  the  city.  He  could  take  no  risks  now. 
The  fast  trot  of  the  horses  was  a  snail's  pace  to 
his  impatience,  and  every  now  and  then  he 
glanced  out,  through  a  crack,  astonished  at  so 
little  progress  on  the  way.  Time  was  to  him 
now  like  a  bit  of  rubber,  that  one  could  stretch 
out,  stretch  out,  indefinitely.  Thoughts  of  the 
new  chapter,  almost  formless,  but  hinting  at 
bright  things,  hummed  through  his  brain. 

At  last.  Jos£  drew  up  the  horses  and  Forrest 
had  passed  under  the  arched  gateway,  and  to  the 
door  of  the  Villa  Dominguez,  which  was  wide 
open.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  uncertain 
whether  he  should  ring,  and  then  heard  her 
voice  from  within,  bidding  him  enter. 

Alma  Lessing,  clad  in  the  gray  dress  she  had 


282  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

worn  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  in  the  Ala- 
meda,  was  reclining  on  a  couch  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  great  bare  parlor,  by  a  window.  She 
beckoned  him  to  take  a  seat  upon  a  low  stool 
beside  her,  and  as  he  did  so  he  took  her  ex 
tended  hand  in  both  of  his. 

Now  that  he  was  in  her  presence  the  confi 
dence  he  had  felt  was  shaking  ;  it  might  be  only 
a  dream  born  of  his  wish — perhaps  the  whole 
scaffolding  he  had  built  up  was  the  work  of  his 
own  imagination — to  vanish  like  mist  before  the 
stern  objective  facts  of  reality.  He  began  awk 
wardly,  some  trouble  showing,  perhaps,  in  his 
face. 

''You  know?"    he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "Don  Calvo  was  here 
an  hour  ago.  He  told  me  what  I  wished  to 
know." 

She  read  him  like  an  open  book  printed  in 
clear  type,  and  her  heart  bounded  within  her. 
Oh,  he  of  little  faith  !  Oh  the  great,  big,  blind, 
stupid,  blundering  child  !  She  smiled  mischiev- 


Jornada  V  283 

ously.  She  would  prolong  this  torture  for  a 
moment  to  punish  him  for  doubting  woman's 
love — compensation  to  follow. 

"It  was  strange,"  he  said,  reflectively,  " I  don't 
know  how  it  happened.  He  was  a  hundred 
times  more  skilful  than  I.  He  had  me  at  his 
mercy  until — "  He  felt  reluctant  to  go  on  ;  it 
appeared  somewhat  foolish  to  him  now — at  least 
when  expressed  to  others — to  her,  perhaps — 
and  these  illusions  of  his  had  something  sacred 
about  them  to  him.  After  a  moment's  hesita 
tion  he  plunged  on  :  "  You  may  think  it  curious, 
but  the  fact  is  there  was  a  moment  I  thought  you 
were  beside  me.  I  could  see  you  as  clearly  as  I 
see  you  now,  and  then  I  fought  like  a  mad 
man."  He  grew  reckless  ;  she  could  think  him  a 
fool  if  she  would.  "I  saw  you  more  than  once 
while  we  were  going  to  the  place.  You  seemed 
to  be  with  me  all  the  time.  I  suppose  I  was  very 
nervous  underneath,  though  I  did  not  know  it." 

Still  she  said  nothing.  The  little  mischievous 
smile  had  faded  from  her  face. 


284  Cosmopolitana  Mexicana 

He  crossed  his  legs,  clasping  his  knee  in  both 
of  his  hands,  his  favorite  attitude.  His  hopes 
were  dimming  and  the  silence  oppressed  him  ; 
he  felt  he  must  break  it. 

"Well,"  he  said,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  red 
carpet,  "you  see,  I  have  got  to  go  away.  General 
Roca  told  me  I  must  keep  out  of  the  way  until 
the  matter  had  blown  over.  I  had  a  letter  from 
a  friend  of  mine  this  morning,  offering  me  the 
position  of  manager  of  a  hacienda  out  in  Guer 
rero.  It  is  not  a  bad  place.  Dull  and  lonely, 
and  all  that,  I  suppose,  but  plenty  of  work. 
General  Roca  has  loaned  me  his  carriage,  and  I 
am  to  catch  the  train  at  the  third  station  out, 
some  ten  miles  from  here."  His  voice  had  the 
note  of  weariness  in  it  as  of  old,  and  the  woman 
could  bear  it  no  longer. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  and  sought  his  eyes, 
compelling  him  to  look  at  her,  to  read  in  her  face 
the  truth,  and  then — doubt  was  laid  aside  forever. 
There  came  to  him  the  full  comprehension  of 
her  love — of  a  love  that  recked  not  of  the  world, 


Jornada  V  285 

that  was  without  bound  or  limit,  such  as  falls  to 
the  lot  of  man  once  in  ages  ;  and,  as  he  bent 
down  to  her,  she  whispered: 

"May  I  go  with  you  ?  " 

With  a  cry  that  was  almost  a  sob  he  fell  upon 
his  knees,  and  wound  his  arms  about  her  till  he 
lifted  her  from  the  couch,  she  yielding  to  him 
gladly,  in  the  fulness  of  her  self-surrender.  As 
their  lips  met  he  knew  that  his  thirst  for  her 
would  never  be  quenched,  though  their  lives 
were  to  span  beyond  those  of  mortals,  and  she 
believed  that  another  star  had  fallen  into  the 
diadem  of  God. 


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